


Better Company

by FourCatProductions



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Differences, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Political Alliances, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Secret Relationship, Skyrim Kink Meme, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy, The Forsworn Conspiracy, Threesome - M/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Various Kinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: The first thing Vanik does when he comes to Markarth is rid the city of a cannibalistic cult of daedra worshippers. He's pretty sure it can't get any worse from there.Then he meets Thongvor Silver-Blood.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: OP wanted to see the Dragonborn as the sugar baby of some high-ranking NPC. And then this happened, because hey. What goes better with sex than class struggles, politics, and corruption?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brother Verulus becomes acquainted with the Dragonborn.

Years from now, when he was old and gray, Brother Verulus would dream of Reachcliff Cave and wake up drenched in sweat.

He remembered following the Dunmer - Vanik, his name was Vanik, a name as sleek and sharp as the warrior himself - through the dank, rocky corridors, frost hissing at his fingertips. His skin crawled at the undead bodies strewn on the ground, sightless eyes staring into eternity, but he forced himself to keep going, lured by the promise of treasure. _Forgive me Arkay,_ he implored silently, _this place is wrong, it's been desecrated. I will cleanse it in your name_. 

He hadn't gotten the chance. The witch-woman with her eerie voice and seductive promises was forever etched in his mind. His fear melted away with a touch of her cold hand, replaced by hunger and exhaustion. She promised that a feast was being prepared, and he went willingly to the altar, limbs heavy. He needed to rest. He'd only close his eyes for a moment, he told himself. _Fight back_ , a small voice cried out in the sudden silence of his mind as he lay down, but what was there to fight? The last thing he saw before his eyes slipped closed was the two of them watching him - the woman with a cruel smile on her lips, and Vanik with his arms folded and eyes dark.

He hadn’t recognized it then, but he did now. The elf looked at him with pity, and scorn. It had been easy to use him as bait.

He sunk into darkness. When he awoke, it was to carnage.

 

"Wake up," someone said from far away, and Verulus stirred, half-conscious. Alarm flickered through his numbed limbs, then faded. His eyes refused to open. He struggled to sit up, his back aching, and a pair of hands helped him remain upright, solid on his shoulders. "Can you walk?"

"I... I don't know." Every word had to be dragged from his lips. His head was swimming, and his mouth was dry and raw. A sour, fetid stench wafted into his nostrils, and he retched. Fear again, stronger this time.

"Drink this." He was given a vial of something slimy. It tasted both floral and murky and clung to the inside of his mouth, but he managed to keep it down, and some of the bite receded from the frigid air surrounding him. His fingers thawed and his head cleared, leaving behind a dull ache. "Get up, priest. We need to go."

Verulus opened his eyes, and wished he hadn't.

There was blood everywhere - splashed across the stone table, dripping off the chairs, soaking dark, oily patches into the dirt. The woman who'd beguiled him lay sprawled a few feet away, throat slashed, blood thick and black all down her front. The rest of the guests had been slaughtered just as efficiently. He recognized two of them with a spike of nausea. The shopkeeper who ran the general store, slumped over with her gut torn open, and the trainer from the stables who bred Markarth's famous war-dogs, barely recognizable through the burns and scorched, blackened flesh covering his body.

Verulus clapped a hand over his mouth, shuddering. His stomach threatened to rebel again. Vanik's hand tightened on his shoulder, and he wrenched his body away, a sob escaping him.

"We need to go," Vanik repeated impatiently. Verulus looked up at him for the first time and saw that he was covered in blood too, his ratty armor splotched with it, splatters and flecks of red arcing across his face and bare arms like warpaint. "Unless you want to stay here?"

Verulus did not, in fact, want to stay there. He stumbled after Vanik, doing his best not to slip or look down. As they exited the room, he glanced over his shoulder one last time at the altar, twisted and cold. A gust of wind sliced into his bones like a frozen blade, and soft, malevolent laughter echoed in its wake. He shoved past Vanik and ran for the exit, bile rising in his throat. They made it back to the main road before he really was sick this time, and he fell to his hands and knees and heaved until there was nothing left but the stench of death clinging to the back of his throat.

Vanik stood off to the side and averted his eyes politely until Verulus' whimpering had ceased. "They didn't have much on them," he said, "except what's-her-name. The shopkeeper. You're entitled to some of it, if you want."

Verulus wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. "You used me."

"I did." Something like guilt flickered across Vanik's face, but it was gone as quickly as it came, leaving Verulus to wonder if he'd imagined it. "For your services." He withdrew a stained coinpurse and dropped it on the ground. It landed next to Verulus' knee. "It needed to look convincing."

"So you let them - " He couldn't finish the thought.

Vanik exhaled and crouched in front of him. His bloody fingers gripped Verulus' chin like a vise, forcing their eyes to meet, and his own were red and cold. "They were cannibals," he said quietly. "Namira-worshipping, remorseless cannibals who wanted me to champion them after we ate you. I did what I had to do, and you're still alive. Be grateful that they won't trouble you anymore."

"Cannibals," Verulus whispered. "Sweet Breath of Arkay. So the bodies in the Hall were..." He supposed he would feel queasy, if there was anything left in his stomach.

Vanik released him and stood up, a long gray silhouette against the misty horizon. Sunrise was coming. "Take care, Brother."

"Where are you going?" Verulus called after him. He didn't get an answer, and Vanik was soon swallowed up by the fog, like he was never there to begin with. Verulus left the coinpurse sitting on the road and ran, a prayer on his lips and a stitch in his side. When he saw Markarth's walls rising high in the distance, he wept again out of sheer relief. 

He spent the next day praying for strength and guidance as he consecrated the Hall of the Dead once more. At least Thongvor Silver-Blood would be placated, he thought wryly. It was a cold comfort, but it was something.

He didn't know who Vanik was at the time. Few did. But many years later, when all was said and done, Verulus would tell his audience that deep down, a part of him had always known. Whether it was true or not, it made for a better story. It wasn't exactly a happy tale, but it was one he felt he had to tell.

His story was only his side of things, of course. It wasn't anywhere near the whole truth. But it was the only one they had.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thongvor and Vanik get off on the wrong foot, and Moth is tired of politics.

Thongvor Silver-Blood wore the face of a man who was never truly satisfied, even though he had everything. Perhaps, Brother Verulus thought, it was because the one thing he truly wanted was just out of his reach.

Right now, Thongvor's brows were knitted together, arms crossed over his chest. "A Dunmer named Vanik," he said, dubious.

"Yes. I haven't seen him since we parted way, but rest assured, he has more than adequately dealt with the issue." Verulus motioned to the corridor entrance behind him. "You are free to visit your ancestors whenever you wish."

Thongvor made a noncommittal 'hunh' in the back of his throat. "Well. Good. If you see this Vanik before I do, send him to me."

Verulus was tempted to tell him exactly where he could put his entitlement and his commands, but he'd had his fill of conflict in general and Thongvor specifically, so he just nodded and went back to mending his torn robes until Thongvor gave up and left him in peace. He thought about Vanik disappearing like a wraith into the mists.

_If he does come back, I hope he knows what he's in for._

 

There was a Dunmer in Understone Keep a few days later, asking for Calcelmo, and Thongvor made a point of observing before he approached. From a distance, all he could make out was a lanky figure with skin the color of slate, wrapped in something that looked like it had once been hide armor. Thongvor wasn't impressed, but then again, he rarely was.

 _Which is why you have yet to marry,_ Thonar's voice said dryly in the back of his mind, as if Thonar was in any position to give marital advice.

Still, the elf had apparently done his ancestors - and by extension, him - a service, and was deserving of some civil words. That milk-drinking whelp of a priest was nowhere to be seen, which was just as well. He could make his own introductions. The Dunmer was heading towards the back of the Keep, where the court mage and his nephew worked, and Thongvor hurried to intercept him.

"Is your name Vanik?"

The elf halted, regarding him with open suspicion. "Who's asking?" 

"Thongvor Silver-Blood." If his name meant anything to Vanik, it didn't register in his expression. Thongvor tried to set aside his irritation. The elf was a newcomer, didn't know the way of things yet. He'd learn soon enough if he spent any real time in the city. "I hear I have you to thank for the Hall of the Dead being open to us again."

"Oh. That." One shoulder rose and fell in an approximation of a shrug. "Don't mention it."

"One good turn deserves another." He opened a pouch on his belt and took out a coinpurse, already filled. Vanik's eyes sparked with interest, and he stood up straighter. Thongvor was unsurprised. He knew the measure of a man, or a mer as the case might be, and it was almost always one of three things - sex, blood, or gold. "For your service."

"So it's true, then. What I've heard." A slender hand darted out and took the coinpurse, tucking it away in one of the pockets sewn haphazardly onto his cuirass. 

"What's that?"

A ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of Vanik's mouth. It softened his face, and Thongvor wondered how old he was. It was hard to tell with elves. "The Silver-Bloods are generous to those who serve their interests."

"Ah, so you _do_ know the weight my family's name carries."

"The inn is called Silver-Blood as well. It doesn't take a scholar." Vanik inclined his head. "Maybe we'll find our goals aligned again someday."

Thongvor frowned at the dismissal. He wasn't finished. "How long have you had that armor?"

Vanik's expression went cold, eyebrows collapsing into an angry knot. "A while."

"That much is obvious." Thongvor eyed it with morbid fascination. It was once fine armor, but it had been stitched and oiled and cleaned so many times, he was amazed it hadn't disintegrated. As it stood, it was a mismatched patchwork of hide and leather, held together by belts and straps and fraying thread. Moth would have a apoplexy if he so much as laid eyes upon it. Thongvor almost wanted to make him come downstairs to witness it for himself.

"I can respect a warrior confident enough to fight with such shoddy equipment, but there's confidence, and then there's foolishness." He motioned towards the twin sets of stone staircases that lead to the upper floor of the Keep. "Pay Moth gro-Bagol a visit on your way out. Have him set you up with a new set of armor, on my coin. You won't find a finer smith this side of the White River."

The Silver-Bloods did not, as a general rule, offer kindness. Favor had to be _earned,_ and if and when they did offer you a boon, you accepted it. This was the way of things in the Reach, considering the alternative was being thrown into Cidhna Mine the second you crossed Thonar. Everyone knew this, but Vanik shook his head like he didn’t. "You already paid me for my part in re-opening your Hall. We're even."

He started to walk away again, but Thongvor, disbelieving, stepped to block his path.

"Do you think I go around throwing coin and gifts at any fool who calls himself a warrior?"

"Charity from men with your kind of wealth always comes with strings attached," Vanik said. "My armor is fine."

He ducked past Thongvor, heading for the exit, and Thongvor went after him, aware that he was letting him temper get the best of him, but unable to pull back in time. He seized Vanik's upper arm. He was thin but wiry, most likely from years of hard labor, and the muscles tensed beneath his palm.

"Careful what you say about me and my family, elf. You don't want to make enemies of us."

"I'm nobody. I shouldn't concern a man as powerful as yourself." Vanik smiled. His teeth were jagged, bright against his skin. "Let go."

 _It's not worth it,_ Thongvor told himself, and released him, bringing his anger to heel. Vanik shot him one last nasty look and stormed off. Thongvor didn't stick around to watch him go. He went up the stairs to the smithy, seething. This was why he didn't offer his favor to almost anyone - even the ones who appeared worthy just ended up being ungrateful, self-important bastards. He came to a halt in the doorway.

Moth didn't turn around. He brought the hammer down once more on the red-hot blade in his hand, sending a shower of sparks to dissolve in the air around him.

"Jarl's got me working on a new order," he said. "Come back later."

"Light armor," Thongvor said, ignoring him. "What do you have?"

Moth took a minute to mull it over while he finished battering the blade into submission and shoved it in the water he kept in a bucket next to the anvil. The metal cooled with a dejected hiss. "Some leather, some elven," he said finally. "Why?"

"Get together the finest set you have. Have it sent to a Dunmer named Vanik, with my compliments."

He was already on his way out when Moth called after him. "Where does he live?"

"I don't know."

Exasperation colored the smith's deep voice. "Then where am I supposed to send it?"

"Find out!" He didn't wait to hear Moth's answer. He doubted it was anything particularly kind.

 

_Only the rich can turn a gift into an insult._

Vanik had been fuming for three days, ever since he left Markarth in high bad temper. The courier had caught up with him somewhere around Rorikstead, panting and red-faced, a sizable bundle strapped to her back.

"You're a hard man - er, elf, to find," she said once she caught her breath, hands braced against her thighs. "Are you Vanik? Please say yes, I've been all over the bloody Reach." He'd taken pity on her and nodded. She heaved a sigh of relief and undone the straps around her shoulders. "Thank the gods. Here. Someone really wants you to have this."

He took it, staggering a little under the unexpected weight. "What is it?"

"Dunno. I just get paid to deliver it." She turned to go, but he halted her.

"How did you know who I am?"

She looked him over - a lithe, scarred fighter in ragged leathers, twin curved axes hanging from his belt - and shook her head, licking her lips nervously. "I'm... not sure I should say. Sir."

"I'm no ser." He set the package down and rifled around in one of the pockets sewn to his jerkin, and come up a few septims, which he pressed into her palm.

She hesitated, then closed her fist around them. "I was told to look for a Dunmer with - " she winced " - a stick up his backside and the ugliest armor I'd ever seen. Sorry. Just telling you what I was told."

For a split second, Vanik had felt his fingertips itching, flame building up beneath his skin. But no. She was only the messenger. He folded his hands behind his back, nails digging deep into his palms. "Well-spotted." He tried to keep the growl out of his voice and failed. "You can go."

She nodded, terror and relief mingled in her eyes, and taken off. He turned his attention then to the tightly-wrapped bundle at his feet. He already knew what it was, because he was meant to know, but he'd still been obligated to drag it the rest of the way to Rorikstead and find a room for the night before he could open it.

He sat on the bed now, armor gleaming at him from the table, golden and smug. A piece of parchment was tucked into one of the gloves. He snatched it up and unfolded it, read it with some difficulty. Thick, slanted handwriting looped across the creamy yellow surface - _Compliments of Thongvor Silver-Blood._ He ignited it with a wave of his hand and took pleasure in watching it turn to ash.

This was what he got for getting involved. He'd seen Thongvor and the priest arguing when he'd first made his way to the Keep, and he'd let his rule about avoiding human affairs slide momentarily, tempted by the prospect of filling his empty coinpurse. He should have known better. He'd known men like the Silver-Blood his entire life, met them countless times while growing up in Windhelm, begging and scraping for coin and spending his nights on the floor of the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Only a man like that could turn such a gift into a punishment for refusing to accept it the first time.

"You're too nosy, too ambitious," Ambarys had told him the night he left Windhelm. "Young fool. Stay out of trouble." He'd bristled at the time - he was in his forty-fifth year now, and more than capable of taking care of himself - but now he found himself wondering begrudgingly if he should have listened. The thought of one of Skyrim's richest and most powerful men, and a Nord at that, taking a personal interest in him made his gut rotten with anxiety.

Still. It was beautiful armor.

 _No._ He'd already made up his mind not to accept it. He rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around his leather-clad torso, making a note of the new cracks and tears. It seemed like they were cropping up overnight now. Childish and sentimental as it was, he couldn't find it in himself to part with his current armor, no matter how beaten up it was. His gaze drifted back over to the table, where the elven armor shimmered in the firelight. Light, but finely crafted, and set with a moonstone inlay that glowed softly against the gold. He'd never owned anything half as fine. 

He'd spent the last few months delving into haunted ruins and doing odd jobs for whoever offered him enough coin to keep his belly full and his weapons sharp while he tried to figure out his next move. He'd been in Solitude a few weeks back, on a self-imposed mission to reach the coast, and he'd ended up hanging around Castle Dour for near an entire day instead, entranced by the smart, polished armor of the Imperial legionnaires, newly-forged and far too rich for his blood.

 _Enough_ , he told himself. _Have some pride, for Azura's sake._ His current armor had been gifted out of love, not malice. He shut his eyes to ward off temptation. He wasn't a fool -- he knew he was going to need new armor, and soon, but he refused to give that presumptuous bastard the satisfaction. He'd scrimp and save until he could afford his own set, one way or another. For tonight, he would eat and drink, and sleep soundly for once on a soft bed with pillows and quilts. And in the morning, he'd turn right back around to Markarth to give the Silver-Blood Nord every last piece of armor back. Down his throat, if necessary.

 

It was a boiling hot summer afternoon, hotter still by the forge, and Moth was glad to put down his hammer when Thongvor appeared in the doorway and said, "Come walk with me."

They followed the same path they always did atop the carved walkways, their footsteps echoing soft against the stone. There was a faint breeze once they reached the top of the wall, and Moth stripped off his tunic and apron to the waist, letting it cool the lingering sweat on his skin. He could feel Thongvor's eyes on him, but neither of them attempted to close the distance between them. There was always a chance someone could walk by, or glance up at exactly the wrong moment. 

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

Thongvor grunted. Sweat rendered his forehead and stubble glossy, but he made no move to shed his armor. "I grow weary of counting coin. To have steel in my hand again, instead of gold..." He sighed. "I find myself longing for the old Legion days."

"Your family's fortune burdens you, does it?"

Thongvor chuckled, but there was a note of bitterness in it. "Back then," he said, as if Moth hadn't spoken, "the Legion stood up for Skyrim. Defended her against those who would do her harm."

"No politics," Moth warned, bumping their shoulders together. They had an easy camaraderie, born of years of learning to trust one another both on the battlefield and off, but there were rules to maintain that balance. Thongvor's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I thought you normally left financial affairs to Thonar," Moth said, changing the subject.

"I do. That doesn't mean I don't like to see what he's doing with our money for myself."

This was probably for the best, Moth figured; Thonar was a slippery bastard even at the best of times. They moved on until they came to the waterfall that poured from just beneath the Wizard's Tower, where Calcelmo jealously guarded his research, and they stood for a moment, watching the water that crashed down the rocky facade into the canals. Moth tilted his face into the spray. 

"Blasted summer," Thongvor said, scrubbing at his balding pate with the back of his arm.

Moth laughed. Back in their Legion days, during the humid nights camped deep in Cyrodiil's marshy trenches and deep valleys, Thongvor would wake him up by crawling into his bedroll and complaining about the heat. Moth hadn't minded. He'd just come up with increasingly creative ways to take the man's mind off of it. He felt a wave of good-natured nostalgia, along with something else stirring deep in his belly. "Come see me tonight," he said in a low voice. "I'll get a room at the inn."

Thongvor didn't meet his eyes, but his ears and neck flushed red as snowberries, and Moth took that as an affirmative. "I have to get back," he said, louder this time. "Jarl wants a new sword to match his new helm."

Thongvor's expression soured, as it always did whenever anyone mentioned Igmund, but he kept quiet. Moth put his tunic back on.

There was someone waiting by the forge when they get back, their back to the entrance, clad in a full set of elven armor. At first, Moth thought it might be one of the Thalmor guards that patrol the hall of the Keep, and his shoulders tensed. He'd made it very clear that they were to stay out of his space, and out of his way. But the stranger turned around, and it was a Dunmer, looking sweaty and peevish. Moth relaxed.

The Dunmer took off his helmet as they approached, wisps of hair escaping the knot at the back of his head and sticking to his cheeks, and set it on the table. "I've been waiting," he complained without so much as a greeting, and Moth was about to tell him that he could go wait somewhere else if it was a problem for him when Thongvor cleared his throat. Moth glanced at him. He looked curiously satisfied.

"Glad to see you've come to your senses, elf."

"It's Vanik," the Dunmer snapped, "and I told you, I didn't want your blasted armor! I'm only wearing it because my old set was - was destroyed on the way here." His voice cracked a little on the last few words, hands tightening around the helm until his knuckles stood out painfully against his skin.

"That's too bad," Thongvor said cheerfully. Vanik ignored him and turned his gaze on Moth. There was wounded pride there, and Moth felt a little sprig of compassion sprout despite himself.

"How much?"

"What?"

"How much," Vanik repeated, gesturing down his front, "for all of this?"

"It's already been paid for," Thongvor said.

Vanik's eyes narrowed, but he kept them stubbornly trained on Moth, who was now torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw them both out for getting him involved in... whatever this was. "I want to pay for it," he said through gritted teeth. "How much?"

"I'll make you a deal," Moth said, before Thongvor could interrupt. "I need a daedra heart. The Jarl wants his new blade cooled in blood. It's not my method, but." He shrugged. "You get me a daedra heart, and we'll call it even."

For a second, he thought Vanik might refuse, but he just nodded tersely and put his helmet back on. "I'll get one for you, then."

"Good luck," Thongvor called after him.

If Vanik heard him, which he almost certainly did, he didn't respond. As soon as he was out of sight, Moth grabbed Thongvor's shoulder. "You wanna explain what just happened?"

"A point of pride." Thongvor shrugged his hand off. "That was clever. Where's he going to find a daedra heart?"

"I was serious. I need one. So I don't care where he gets it, as long as it's soon." Thongvor scowled, and Moth scowled back. "Why do you care so much? Let him feel like he's earned it."

"He _has_ earned it. But he felt it necessary to insult me in the process."

"You don't remember what having nothing is like. Any grand act of charity feels like it comes at the price of your dignity." Moth went over to his workbench and picked up the tongs, then smirked over his shoulder at Thongvor. "And Silver-Blood generosity is usually about proving a point. He's sharp."

"That's enough out of you," Thongvor said.

Moth turned back around and stepped up to him. Their bodies almost touched, but not quite. "Tonight," he said. "The usual room. Forget about him."

Thongvor's gaze raked over him in one long, slow motion, and then he nodded, throat bobbing as he stepped back. "Tonight, then."

Moth went back to the workbench and listened to Thongvor's retreating footfalls until they faded. He was most likely off to petition the Jarl for another audience, his weekly ritual. Faleen would sooner run him through than let him near Igmund, though - they could all hear the disgust in her voice whenever she was forced to address him. She would probably feel the same about Thonar if he ever left the Treasury House.

He set down the tongs and took a deep breath, trying to clear out the thoughts that clung to the inside of his skull like cobwebs. It was impossible to escape politics and treachery in this city, no matter how hard he tried. He shut his eyes, and another image floated to the surface unbidden - Vanik's grim expression as he'd promised to bring Moth back a heart. He was new at this, Moth realized with a stab of pity. He had the confidence of a seasoned explorer, but there was a vulnerability that peeked through whenever that confidence was rattled. Young and desperate to make it on his own. Markarth was going to eat him alive if he stuck around. Moth picked up a half-finished helm, whistling tunelessly. He'd give it a week.

 

"Here." The burlap sack slapped wetly on the table, smelling of ash and iron. Vanik looked rather pleased with himself. "It's still fresh," he added, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Don't tell me how you got this. I don't want to know," Moth said, but he couldn't help being a little impressed. "Thanks, though. Consider the armor paid for."

He hadn't expected Vanik to come back, if he was being completely honest. Not that it would have mattered, since Thongvor had already paid in full. But this meant he could finish the sword without having to put in an order to the College and wait for them to send someone traipsing to the other side of the province, so he felt like he owed Vanik the satisfaction. This should have been the end of it, but Vanik hung around for another twenty minutes, hovering in the doorway until Moth could take it no more.

"What? What is it?"

"My old armor," Vanik said, words tumbling over one another in his haste to get them out. "Do you - could you see if it's salvageable? When you're not busy."

"Fine. Come back later."

When Moth cooled the forge for the night and Ghorza and Tacitus came back to the small room they all shared to eat dinner, Vanik wasn't far behind them, wearing plainclothes. He fetched the remains of the armor from his pack while Tacitus cleared the table, and the smiths spread it out to have a look.

"Burn it," Ghorza said shortly, sitting back. "Can't do anything with this."

Vanik's mouth went tight. "Not an option."

"I can mend it, but there's no point," Moth said. He was itching to take the whole mess - he refused to think of it as armor - and throw it on the fire, but he refrained. "Next fight you get into, it'll just fall right back apart."

"Oh."

"How long have you been wearing it?"

Vanik scratched his chin and refused to look either of them in the eye. "Dunno. Maybe a year? I got it last summer."

"Did you ever take it off?"

"Not... really. Outside of bathing, I guess."

"Who's been repairing it?"

His gray cheeks darkened with embarrassment. "I have." Ghorza looked personally offended at this, and Moth shook his head.

"Should have had a real smith fix it up right," Ghorza grunted, and motioned for Tacitus to hand her an ale. "Nothin' to be done about it now."

"Your new armor is nice," Tacitus ventured timidly, uncorking the bottle and sliding it over to her. "Unless that's not the problem...?"

"I'll buy it off of you, if you want," Moth offered. "I need more scrap."

"No!"

Vanik surprised them all with his outburst, furiously bundling his armor back into his pack. "It's not for sale. Or for burning!"

He bolted out of the smithy, and Ghorza snorted, taking a long pull of her ale. "Touchy one, that elf." Moth stood, pushing his chair back, and she looked up at him curiously. "Where are you going?" He didn't answer. By the time he got to the stairs, Vanik was gone.

 

It wasn't just about the armor. Not that it was their business, anyway.

Vanik stared at the wall. He tried to avoiding spending money whenever he could -  the Khajiit caravans were usually happy enough to share a fire with him, especially if he had food or trinkets to share in return - but for some reason, he found himself at the inn, shelling out a handful of septims for a shabby, closet-sized room with a stone bed. It wasn't too bad once he piled his bedroll and furs on top of the slab, but he still felt cheated. At least the drinks were decent. He'd had two or three before dragging himself to bed and he should have been pleasantly buzzed, but all he really felt was tired.

 _What am I even doing here?_ He came to Markarth on a whim, whispers of silver and intrigue fueling his interest, and walked right into a city stewing in its own filth. Not that Windhelm was any different, but at least he had family there. A ragtag, dirt-poor family, but a family all the same. So far, he'd met a fool priest, a temperamental wizard, a pack of cannibals, and then those two - Silver-Blood and the blacksmith. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides.

They scrimped to get him that armor, Ambarys and Revyn and the rest. Even Scouts-Many-Marshes and a few of the others at the Assemblage chipped in what they could to see him properly outfitted and on his way. It meant something, that they'd done that for him, and the little enchantments they'd put on it had kept him warm in even the iciest reaches Skyrim has to offer. And then that Nord, with his wealth and cocksure entitlement, had just assumed that he could order him about as he liked and that Vanik would be grateful for it. He should know better than to expect differently by now, he told himself. At least Moth seemed to understand why he wanted to pay for the armor on his own terms.

It's not like they knew, the imminently practical voice in his head, the one that sounded almost exactly like Idesa, reminded him. He really did need new armor, and now he had it, strong and clean and more beautiful than anything he'd ever dreamed of owning. But it was still the principle of the thing, and he was unwilling to let the matter drop. He'd wear it, but he wouldn't give Silver-Blood the satisfaction of his gratitude. A sudden wave of homesickness washed over him, and he burrowed under the furs, pausing only to blow out the candle on the nightstand.

He was grown, he reminded himself, and he'd gone by choice, leaving behind the chill of a near-constant winter and the abuse of the local Nords to try for something better. That did't make the lump in his throat any smaller. When he did fall asleep, his dreams were ghostly, immaterial things that melted into nothing almost as soon as they appeared, and he woke the next morning at dawn with dried tears crusting his lashes together. He scrubbed them away fiercely, glad he couldn't see his reflection.

 

Thongvor bided his time.

Oh, he still demanded to be heard. It was his family's prison, and his family's coin, that kept the city from collapsing in on itself. They deserved a say, and with Thonar burying himself beneath mountains of parchment and ledgers all day, it fell to him alone to make sure the Silver-Bloods had a voice. Igmund couldn't ignore him forever. But the rest - his plans for the future, and for his revenge - he kept close, and he waited. It was only when he sat in the Hall of the Dead, surrounded by somber stone walls and cold black tombs that he truly allowed himself to feel the rage that had splintered his heart into bitter, bloody pieces.

"I swear to you," he whispered aloud each and every time, voice echoing in the quiet. "I swear to you I will finish this."

It was in these quiet, lonely moments that he doubted himself the most, though he would never admit it. Doubt was too costly, even for him.

Most days, he couldn't stay for long, but today he lingered, unable to bear the thought of what lay outside in the rest of the keep. Seeing the Thalmor slithering through the halls like the smug vermin they were never failed to make him feel ill, but today it made him feel especially wretched.  _Someday_ , he thought. _Someday I will stand on the shores of the Summerset Isles and watch you all burn._

His feet took him out of the Hall of the Dead and through the keep when he could no longer sit still, and up the stairs to the forge as they did nearly every day, bad temper still smoldering. "All these damn elves," he snarled by way of greeting.

Moth stopped what he was doing long enough to shoot him a warning look. "Keep your voice down."

"I'll talk as loudly as I damn well please." He came to look over Moth's shoulder. "This is the sword, eh?"

"Yes." It was a thing of beauty, silver with an icy sheen wherever light rippled across its blade. It put Thongvor in mind of winter. There was a reddish tint when Moth picked it up to test its heft, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Blood and silver, my friend. Blood and silver."

"Markarth to its core," Moth said.

Thongvor nodded. "A handsome blade. Shame its owner isn't fit to wield it."

Moth slammed the sword onto the ledge next to the workbench, shoulders rigid, and turned to face Thongvor. His eyes were cloudy with anger, and Thongvor took a step back. "Get out."

Moth never told him to get out. He still had the bruises from last night hidden beneath his tunic, fingertip-shaped smudges on his skin from Moth's callused hands gripping him while they fucked up against the bedroom door, panting into each other's mouths. The anger in his gut reared its ugly head, and he stepped forward again, toe to toe with Moth. "Your talents are wasted here. I've been telling you that for years."

"And I'll tell you the same thing I've been saying for years. Who I work for isn't your concern."

Moth's nostrils flared, jaw jutting forward, and Thongvor knew that look, had seen it countless times over the years, but he couldn't resist prodding at the wound, because he never could. They fought in furious whispers, drowned out by the hiss of the forge.

"Igmund is an Imperial puppet and a fool, and the Legion is tearing itself apart while he dances. Surely you see that as plain as I do!"

"You fought for the Legion once."

"The Legion I fought for cared for my country and my people. Now all they care about is appeasing a pack of knife-eared bastards who would see us all slaughtered and think the world better for it!"

"It's always about you, isn't it?" Moth's anger was usually controlled, a slow burn, but it was beginning to boil over. He shoved his face into Thongvor's, their noses touching. "Always coming in here, acting like my time isn't worth as much as yours, like I should just sit here like some dumb beast with nothing better to do than listen to you moan all day - "

"I thought you liked it when I moan," Thongvor growled back.

Moth's lips pulled away from his teeth, like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or hit him. "You just can't let it go, can you? Even long enough to have a normal conversation."

"You _know_ why I can't let it go!" His voice surprised both of them, sharp and brittle, and without thinking, he shoved Moth backwards. In response, Moth grabbed him by the collar and whipped them around, shoving him up against the workbench hard enough to move it back a few inches. The shelves around them rattled with the impact, ingots and tongs and hammers shifting out of place.

Moth kissed him then, hard, all tongue and the press of tusks. Thongvor tried to push him away again, but Moth sunk his front teeth into Thongvor's lower lip and the little starburst of pleasure-pain went straight to his cock. He made a wounded noise and fisted his hands in Moth's hair.

" _No more politics._ " Moth dragged his tongue across Thongvor's. One of his tusks nicked Thongvor's upper lip. Thongvor reached around and grabbed his arse roughly, grinding against the muscular thigh shoved between his own. In retaliation, Moth bunched his tunic in his fists, knuckles pressing hard into the meat of Thongvor's chest, and their teeth clacked together as he pushed back in, deepening the kiss until he was nearly fucking Thongvor's mouth with his tongue. It was messy and angry and just this side of painful, and he was so hard it ached. He gave into the moment and dug his blunt nails into the solid muscle beneath his hands, eliciting a grunt.

Everything else slipped away, everything except teeth and tongues and hands and the punishing way Moth ground his thigh against Thongvor's cock through layers of fabric. He closed his eyes and pulled away, bit the spot where Moth's neck joined his shoulder. He got another shove for his troubles, the workbench scraping across the floor, and then Moth's tusks pressed against his jaw, breath hot on his cheek. "Didn't you get enough last night?"

"Shut up." He wasn't sure he could go again anyway. He wasn't as young as he used to be.

He crushed their lips together, shuddering as Moth grabbed the tops of his thighs and pushed them further apart. He fit his hips against Thongvor's, and rocked against him until they were both sweating and breathing hard, eyes closed, trying not to give themselves away with a stray gasp or groan. It was the middle of the day, and anyone could just walk in on them. The thought made him throb. He pulled on Moth's hair, mouth on his neck, and they both failed to notice Vanik slowly backing out of the doorway, eyes wide, without a sound.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dragon attacks Markarth, and Vanik is invited to dinner.

Moth woke up sore and ashamed the next morning, chest littered with lovebites. Thongvor was still fast asleep beside him, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other hanging off the side of the bed. Moth's first instinct was to shove him the rest of the way off. He was still angry, but less so in the cold light of morning. Thongvor had a way of provoking him past the point of reason at times. He sat up with a grunt, sore muscles protesting. The sheets pooled in his lap and slid down Thongvor's hips. Thongvor made a displeased noise, but didn't stir, and Moth watched him for a minute, thoughtful. Thongvor's back was a tableau of battle scars, deep and knotted, and Moth knew the story behind each one. He occasionally wondered, as he did now, if there was such a thing as knowing someone _too_ well.

He wasn't sure that what he felt for Thongvor was romantic in nature. They'd never lived together, or spoken of plans for a shared future, and neither of them were overly given to sentiment. But Moth had always privately thought that whatever he felt, "love" seemed too incomplete a word to describe it.

They said, both of them, that they had never said _I love you_ to one another _._  This was a lie, but it was a lie they told themselves comfortably. The truth would have only muddled things.

Moth poked Thongvor in the ribs. "Hey," he said. The mattress dipped under their combined weight when Thongvor grumbled and shifted, burying his face in his pillow. There were no stone beds for the patriarch of the Silver-Blood family. He'd had a four-poster bed imported from the east a few years back, its plush cushion and downy pillows one of the few personal luxuries he allowed himself. Thonar lived in the Treasury House, keeping his wife in jewels and furs and feasting every other night, but Thongvor's apartments were modest, and he spent his days ceaselessly petitioning the Jarl for an audience, drinking little and smiling less.

"I've spent enough of my life sleeping on dirt and rocks," he said when he had the bed delivered, and that was that. Moth preferred his own bed, but he had to admit, Thongvor's was easier on the knees when they fucked. He prodded Thongvor again, and Thongvor kicked him in the ankle.

"What?" he asked, voice thick with sleep and irritation.

"I have to go." Moth pushed the sheets aside and crawled out of bed, ignoring the ache in his shins when his feet touched cold stone. Sunrise was nearing, and he padded around the room, hunting for his scattered clothing.

Thongvor rolled over to follow his movements, eyes still half-closed. "Already?"

"Forge needs warming." Smalls on and breeches in hand, he spied his tunic hanging from the antler of the elk head mounted just over the doorway. He didn't recall clothes being flung off with quite that much enthusiasm, but it wouldn't have been the first time. He stepped into his breeches and began lacing them up. Pale orange light was already starting to bleed into the dove-gray morning. He'd have to tell Ghorza that he slept off a night of heavy drinking at the inn. "I'm supposed to open in an hour."

Thongvor propped himself up on his elbows. "Moth," he said, voice still deeper than normal and a little scratchy, and Moth tried to ignore the way the sheets tangled around his bare hips. "Last night. I should - " the word got caught in his teeth for a second before he could spit it out. "Apologize."

Moth snorted. Thongvor feared apologies far more than he had ever feared death. "Yes," he said, "You should."

This was their longstanding shorthand for penance and forgiveness, to spare both of them the tedium of discussing emotions _._ Thongvor relaxed, but his face still looked odd, strained with some other anxiety. "Have dinner with me tonight."

Moth was preoccupied with trying to retrieve his tunic from the elk's horns without ripping it, but there was a forced lightness to the request that gave him pause. "I'm supposed to eat with Ghorza."

"Bring her, if you want. Her boy too." Moth finally wrestled the tunic down and pulled it over his head. When he looked over his shoulder, Thongvor was stifling a yawn with his forearm and refusing to meet his eyes. "There's enough to go around."

"Can't speak for either of them, but I'll come by after I close up shop," Moth said, even though they both know that Ghorza would never turn down a free meal and Tacitus did whatever Ghorza told him to do. He stooped down to drag his boots out from under the bed and shoved his feet into them. "You can go back to sleep, if you want."

"No use for it," Thongvor said, and tilted his head to the side, neck cracking. "I'm up now."

Moth shrugged apologetically and crossed over to his side of the room, pressing his lips against Thongvor's before he could protest. They rarely displayed such casual affection, but it was still that dreamlike morning hour where the boundaries between fantasy and reality were easily blurred, and Thongvor accepted the kiss with something close to a smile. He was considered handsome in their younger days, the eldest Silver-Blood, but Moth preferred him as he was now - hammered and forged by battle and the passage of time, but still standing. Moth bit at his mouth before pulling away.

"See you later, then."

Thongvar grunted and slumped back against the pillows, waving him off. He didn't keep live-in servants, preferring his privacy, and Moth let himself out and locked up behind him with the spare key.

The apartments were nestled high and deep in Markarth's walls, clear on the other side of the city from the keep. The sky was soaked in pink and gold as the sun crept over the mountains, and Moth was the only one out, save for the morning patrol he passed on his way back to the forge. It was still bearable this early in the day, before the heat really started to settle in, but it wouldn't stay that way for long. Sun's Height had come this year with a vengeance. Moth hated it, because he hated what it did to Thongvor. Thonar never seemed bothered, but that was the difference between them - one brother had his eyes fixed firmly on the past, while the other cared solely for the future.

Ghorza was on her way out when he arrived, and grunted at him from the top of the stairs. "Where have you been?"

"Inn," Moth said. "Drank too much. Didn't feel like walking home."

He wasn't sure she believed him, but it didn't really matter. They stayed out of each other's affairs. He didn't say anything when she and Tacitus were both conveniently gone overnight and came in the next morning fifteen minutes apart, like they rehearsed it. When he got into the shop, he grabbed the bowl of fire salts he kept locked up in the chest at the foot of his bed and sprinkled a pinch onto the cold ashes of the forge. Next came the kindling, and then the bellows; a little bit of coaxing, and it crackled to life, belching smoke and white-hot flame. He stood at the workbench and ran over his checklist for the day. He was already running later than he wanted to be. Faleen's shield needed repairing, as did several of the guards' swords and bows, and Rarek only gave him an order last night for twoscore new cuirasses, all Nordic steel. He'd need to enlist Ghorza's help if Igmund kept sending him the work of two smiths and expecting it done in half the time. At least Thongvor thanked him whenever he put in an order.

He checked his leather stores, and was greeted by a half-empty crate. He hadn't had time to get more, and so made a mental note to ask Ghorza if he could borrow Tacitus for a few hours. The boy wasn't good for much, but he could tan and strip leather passably well. Vanik's face came to mind unexpectedly. Moth had no idea if he was is still in Markarth, but if he was, maybe he could be persuaded to let go of his ragged old armor for a fair price. He could get plenty of scrap out of it with a little work. Shame he seemed so attached to it. Moth found himself wondering why.

There was no time for fancies, though, and he shook all thoughts of Jarls and Silver-Bloods and Dunmer from his head and reached for Faleen's shield. He really did have too much to do today.

 

This was what the people of Markarth remembered from the day the dragon attacked.

 A guard named Callum remembered dozing off in the watchtower on a hot summer afternoon. A bird called out from a nearby tree, the drone of gnats and bees filling the honey-scented air. The sun blazed high and red in the sky. He could barely keep his eyes open, was already dreaming of a cold pint when his shift ended. Then a shadow rippled over him, blotting out the sun, and for a second, he thought he might be dreaming. It was the biggest shadow he could ever remember seeing, and it had wings. He leaned over the railing and looked up. His bow clattered against the deck, hands gone stiff with fear. He grabbed for the horn too late and blew one long, querulous note, but it was drowned out as the dragon opened its mouth and roared. Callum had never heard a noise like that before, or since. It sounded like the heavens ripping open.

 

Adara remembered walking down to the market square with her father. It was warm and sunny and they were going to visit her mother's stall before lunch. She was hoping she'd get a chance to mind it afterwards. She was allowed to sometimes, and she liked it a lot more now that Hogni the butcher was gone. He used to look at her mother the same way he looked at the meat he sold. Nobody would tell her what happened to him, but she hoped he wasn't coming back anytime soon. "Can I look after the stall today?"

Endon chuckled. "You'll have to ask your mother, but I don't see why not."

"Okay."

A noise thundered overhead, like the sky was screaming in pain, and Adara clapped her hand over her ears. Endon grabbed her shoulders and they both looked up. Adara had read about dragons in some of her books, but that was just words. It looked as big as a mountain, circling above the city, and Endon picked her up like she was a baby again and weighed nothing at all. He ran the rest of the way down the street, across the walkway to the inn and threw open the door. She still had her hands clapped over her ears when he set her down, and he pulled them away gently. "Stay here. Promise me."

"I promise," she said, her heart beating fast like a rabbit's.

"I'm going to get your mother. We'll be back soon."

She nodded, and he leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. And then he was running again, away from the inn towards the market, where the crowd had began to swell, panicked. Adara pulled the heavy door shut. Nobody in the inn seemed to realize what was happening. The innkeeper and his wife were yelling at each other and the old bard was drinking in the corner. The daughter started yelling too from where she was sweeping by the hearth. Adara crawled under one of the tables and wrapped her arms around her knees. Nobody noticed.

 

"Bothela, no!"

"If this is how I go, then so be it. Now move, you silly girl."

"You can't go out there!" Muiri remembered being afraid Bothela might hex her for blocking the only way out of the shop. "Who am I going to apprentice with if you get eaten by a dragon? I'll never find another teacher half as good as you!"

"Flattery won't get you as far as you think," Bothela scolded, but her eyes were bright and pleased, and she went back over to the counter, where she'd been grinding up bonemeal only moments earlier. "Still, I suppose you're right. We can't have some halfwit mucking up your training."

"Exactly," Muiri agreed, and sighed inwardly, relieved.

"Could use some dragon's tooth, though. Good for headaches."

"Bothela, no - "

 

Kleppr and Frabi didn't remember much of anything about the dragon before Endon and Kerah burst into the inn. They were too busy arguing about the correct number of blankets alloted per room, and whether or not Kleppr's interest in their long-term tenant was, as he claimed, strictly business. Neither of them heard the rioting on the other side of the door. Kleppr was deaf in one ear, and Frabbi couldn't hear anything over the sound of her contempt for him. Hroki did, though, with one ear pressed against the door and a broom in her hand, and she remembered wishing for a split second that the dragon would come crashing through the roof and put both of them out of their misery. She saw Adara hiding under one of the tables, and when she knelt down the girl looked at her through the legs of the chair.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Waiting," Adara whispered, eyes huge in the soft dark moon of her face.

The door slammed open before Hroki could respond, hinges singing. Kerah came running inside, her hair and clothing singed, but otherwise unharmed. Endon was right behind her. Adara scrambled out from under the table and flung herself into her parents' arms, already crying. Kleppr and Frabi stopped yelling, their attention turning to the noise in corner.

"What's going on out there?" Kleppr demanded.

The door caught fire.

 

The people who lived in the Warrens remembered chaos. Omlaug and Hathrasil were the only two working the smelter - only two who could work, or would - and so they were the only ones to see Mulush flee his post before the guards even came running down from the barracks. A shriek rang out, and the ground beneath their feet trembled in response. Omlaug dropped his shovel and looked up, shading his eyes with his hand.

"Dibella's pretty tits," Hathrasil breathed beside him. "Is that - "

The dragon spiraled higher on an updraft, then folded its wings and plummeted like a stone. The resulting shock wave ripped through half the city like an earthquake, boulders and buildings shaking, tree branches whipping violently in the hot wind that followed as fire flooded the rooftops. Their hair and clothes flapped wildly as they stumbled to higher ground. Smoke billowed from the center of the market. They heard screams, and both men picked themselves up and ran. On their way back to the Warrens, they saw Eltrys running in the opposite direction, towards the Treasury House.

"Are you mad?" Omlaug yelled after him, but his words were drowned out by another roar as the dragon took to the skies again. Rhiada was probably safer in the Treasury House than anywhere Eltrys could take her. And maybe they'd get lucky, he thought as they huddled on their hay pallets and passed a bottle of sour wine between them to take the edge off their fear. Maybe the dragon would eat Mulush. They had to have some hope.

 

"My Jarl, this is for the best."

"It's best for me to cower on my throne while a dragon rampages in my city and slaughters my people?"

"It's too dangerous." Faleen's hand was already on the hilt of her sword. "I'll go assist the guards."

"Faleen - "

"Please, my Jarl." He fell silent. "We already have a water brigade headed towards the market to try to put out the fires. It's more important for you to stay here."

" _Why_?" he demanded, leaning forward to meet her gaze.

"Because if something were to happen to you, Thongvor Silver-Blood will be warming himself on your throne before dinner!"

And it was with a heavy heart that Igmund remembered she was right.

 

Verulus remembered the Dragonborn.

He remembered other things too - things that would be scarred deep into his memories, things he prayed to Arkay to forget. Things like the stench of charred flesh in his nostrils, the screams clogging his ears, oily black smoke rising from the streets. Stone didn't burn, but it scorched. Wooden doorways went up in flame, and so did the trees lining the streets and courtyards. Rows of plants burned like some hellish garden. He'd come down from the Keep. He didn't know why he'd come.

Most of the guards had gone outside the walls in an attempt to lure the dragon away from the city itself. The archers were using the stables as cover. They'd been up on the walls at first. Now the tops of the walls were black with ash and the remains of the archers the dragon hadn't devoured or incinerated. Verulus ran for the city gates, which miraculously were only a little charred, but a pair of guards from the water brigade blocked his path.

"No civilians!" One of them barked in his face.

"No, you don't understand, I'm a healer - " They lead him away from the doors, even as he kept protesting, "Let me go, I can help out there!"

They ignored him, and he was pushed out of the marketplace and down the street, out of range of the fires. He ran, frustrated, in the other direction, following the street until he found one of the carved sets of stairs that were all over the city. They would take him to the top of the wall. Most of his training had been focused on restoration, not combat, but he did know some destruction magic.

He climbed halfway up the steps that lead to the top of the wall, and had to stop because he couldn't quite catch his breath, fear making him dizzy. He climbed back down. Was he really going to do this? He couldn't see what was going on, but he could hear it - the screaming, the dragon's guttural tongue, the grisly sounds of teeth and the belch of flame.

He had to do this. He couldn't just sit there and do nothing. He started to climb again, but someone grabbed the back of his robes and yanked him down, shoving him up against the wall.

"Stay down, idiot!" Vanik snapped in his ear. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Verulus struggled out of his grip. He hadn't realized Vanik was still in Markarth. "And you won't?"

"Don't worry about it." Vanik bounded up the steps two at a time, and Verulus watched despite himself until Vanik was up at the very top of the wall. Then he followed him up, making sure to stay low against the stone.

Vanik dropped into a crouch and crawled forward until he was balanced precariously on one of the old aqueducts that lined the wall. The creak and flap of leathery wings filled the air, and the dragon rose. Vanik took a deep breath - Verulus could see his shoulders rise and fall - and tilted his head to the sky.

**_"FO KRAH!"_ **

His voice rolled out like a clap of thunder, and he breathed forth a gale of bitter frost, a rolling cloud of ice and snow and sharp-sleet wind that bounded forward like some great beast. Spines of ice formed on the wall around him, three, four feet high, and the storm crashed into the dragon's side. It tried to climb higher on the drafts but the frozen wave curled and clawed at it, glazing over one of its wings and its tail and lower belly. Rudderless, suddenly deprived of its ability to fly, it spiraled downward and crashed, skidding against Markarth's outer walls. They shook beneath the force of the blow, and Verulus was thrown flat. Vanik drew his axes from his belt and flung himself out over the side of the wall. A startled yell broke out of Verulus' throat, and he crawled to the edge and leaned over.

Vanik had landed low on the dragon's back, just as the remaining guards regrouped, and he clung to its leathery hide as it thrashed, head whipping back and forth serpentine as its one good wing beat like a hurricane. The other one lay flat on the ground, encased in a thick sheet of ice like crystal. Vanik's axes bit in the base of its neck, where the thick scales gave way to softer flesh, and a hail of arrows pierced its wing and gaping mouth. The dragon snapped its jaws, splintering the arrow shafts, and Vanik hooked the blades of his axes over the spikes on its neck and scaled it like he was climbing a mountain. The dragon bellowed with rage and with a great heave, rolled onto its back, beating its neck desperately against the ground. Verulus' heart dropped into his stomach. 

Dust billowed and broken shards of ice flew thick in every direction, forcing the guards back to avoid being caught in the maelstrom. The dragon's tail lashed as it let out a terrible, anguished screech, and then, abruptly, there was silence. The tail, thick as a tree trunk, fell to the ground with a sickening thud. It didn't move again. Some of the dust began to disperse, and from high up on the wall, Verulus saw Vanik crawl off of the beast's head and topple to the ground, clutching two broken handles. He flung them away as he sat up. The dragon's eye socket was a gaping red hole in the side of its face, its mouth lolling open grotequely, and Vanik's armor shone, drenched with blood so red it was almost black. A violent wind snaked across the countryside, and a flock of birds shot out of the treetops surrounding Markarth and dispersed in all directions, cawing. Vanik didn't move. The dragon's corpse began to glow.

Verulus shook his head and looked again, certain he wasn't seeing what he thought he saw - but no, it was glowing as fierce and golden as the sun, and then it dissolved into great streamers of light that wrapped themselves around Vanik like a cocoon. Its rays shot outward, and he had to shut his eyes - it was too brilliant to keep looking. When the white behind his eyelids faded and he looked again, only the dragon's skeleton remained. Vanik got to his feet unsteadily, staggering. The guards were all clustered together, weapons still drawn. Nobody moved or spoke. No noise came from behind the walls. It was like a dream, fragile, and it shattered the minute someone shouted a single word. 

"Dovahkiin!"

Vanik ran. Nobody tried to stop him. They'd suffered enough that day.

 

Ri'saad's caravan came soon thereafter, and Vanik came down from his makeshift camp on the hill to meet them. To his disappointment, they didn't have any axes for sale. He looked at a few other things - swords and daggers mostly, and an elven bow so beautiful he almost bought it, even though his archery skills left something to be desired - but his heart wasn't in it. He had a dagger he kept stashed in case of emergencies, and he had his magic, so it wasn't like he was helpless, but he felt naked without them. He'd had them a long time.

"Perhaps next time," Ri'saad said politely, sensing his disappointment.

Vanik thanked him and climbed the hill again. He had to stop frequently. His wrist was swollen and hurt, and his legs almost gave out more than once, but he made it up, and dragged himself back to camp. Few people came to the Lovers' standing stone, and it made an excellent spot for camping once he'd won it from the bear who'd been there previously. He sat on his bedroll, trying to ignore the throbbing in his wrist, and ate the last of his stale bread and cheese.

Fighting the dragon had been unavoidable. He couldn't let it wreck havoc unchallenged. But his armor now had scratches and dents all over the breastplate and greaves, and bruises bloomed all over his skin like nightshade. All of his coin was going to go to having it repaired, he could already tell, which meant that he might not be able to afford new weapons for some time. And now all of Markarth knew he was the Dragonborn. So much for trying to be inconspicuous.

He stuffed the last of his meal in his mouth and chewed, sullen. He was going to have to go back into the city for work. There might be a bounty or two available for taking, but the ones that paid well were the really dangerous ones, and he wasn't desperate enough to take on a giant or a cave full of bandits without being properly armed. Mills and mines were good work, but also the least in need of help, and he'd already been to Left-Hand mine a few days earlier to see if they needed anything done. They didn't, and Kolskeggr was out as well - he'd been told, rudely, that they didn't hire anyone without direct orders from Thonar Silver-Blood. Gold tended to go missing otherwise. 

The ache in his wrist grew fiery, and he tried massaging it, but that only made it worse. He was going to have to see a healer. The court mages and healers were probably already overrun with attending to the wounded from the dragon attack, but hopefully someone would be able to see him. He got to his feet with a wince. There was also the House of Dibella, remote at the Markarth's highest peak, if he was willing to make the climb. He could see it all the way from his position on the hill, standing proud and unblemished. He'd heard they weren't fond of men, but that wasn't what worried him. He'd also heard some of her houses offered other kinds of healing and worship, though not as openly in Skyrim as other provinces. Sex itself was one thing; growing up in a tavern had proven educational, to say the least. But sex as an art form, as something that required skill and seduction, was miles beyond him. The idea made him uneasy, if he was being honest. He put on his cloak and cowl to hide his armor and most of his face, and limped back to town.

He found Verulus with the rest of the healers in the sickbay, and waited by the doorway while the priest finished tending to a guard's broken arm. Then he motioned him over and pulled his cowl down. "Come with me." 

"I can't," Verulus said. "I'm needed here."

"It'll only take a minute."

That was how they ended up on the low stone bench outside the Hall of the Dead, Verulus concentrating over Vanik's wrist. Light bubbled up and shone in his hands, and the abused flesh slowly returned to its original state, the worst of the pain fading.

"I don't know why we couldn't have done this in the sickbay," Verulus grumbled.

"Privacy," Vanik said firmly, and rotated his wrist this way and that, testing it. It was stiff, but aside from a dull ache when he bent it a certain way, it was good as new. "Much better."

"I have to say, I'm surprised you need my help."

"Why?" He took in the uncomfortable slant of Verulus' mouth. "Because I'm a Dunmer?"

No answer. Vanik rolled his eyes. Everyone's magic was different. His own was an impatient thing made for fire and ice, wild as an animal caught in a trap. More docile schools were beyond him. Destruction was birth and decay all at once, voracious as its name suggested; it came as naturally to him as breathing. Restoration, on the other hand, required a vulnerability he found uncomfortable. It was about returning things to the way they were meant to be, and Vanik had no idea how things were _meant_ to be. His path lead everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, and trying to plan beyond his next meal only left him muddled and frustrated as of late. "It's fine. Thank you."

"I suppose I ought to be the one thanking you," Verulus said, after a moment's hesitation. "For intervening when you did."

"People thanking me is exactly what I'm trying to avoid." He pulled his cowl back up. "Unless that thanks happens to come in the form of gold, in which case I'll be happy to accept it."

Verulus didn't say anything, but his expression suggested that this exchange hadn't done much to improve his opinion of Vanik's character. Twice now I've saved his hide, Vanik thought, and it shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. He stood up abruptly and walked off.

"Thank you anyway," Verulus called after him.

Vanik wanted to tell him he could keep it. What good was gratitude when it wasn't backed by coin? Words didn't fill your belly, or warm you on a cold winter's night. But he was tired and wanted to get back to camp, so he kept walking. He'd learned early on that you were less likely to stand out if you acted like you belonged, and aside from one or two glances from the guards, nobody paid him any mind. He made it out the door, and he would have kept going, but Thongvor Silver-Blood was standing on the steps like he'd been waiting for Vanik all along. Vanik cursed under his breath and turned back the way he'd come, looking for a different path.

"Wait," Thongvor said.

Vanik considered bolting, but he'd already been spotted. So he turned on his heel and crossed his arms over his chest, bracing himself. "What do you want?"

"Just to speak with you for a moment." Thongvor seemed surprisingly subdued compared to their previous interactions, and his voice was free of mockery. Then again, he owned half of Markarth and her surrounding territories, so perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all. "It would seem I owe you my gratitude yet again, Dovahkiin."

There was that title again, uttered with grudging respect in his thick lowland accent. Vanik squinted up at him. "You're taking this awfully well."

This didn't appear to be the response Thongvor was expecting. "What do you mean?"

"Your Dragonborn being an elf." 

Vanik, like most sentient creatures, was possessed of a great many qualities - some good, others not. One of the most prominent of those qualities was a complete inability to keep his mouth shut, and he regretted it as soon as he saw a muscle twitch in Thongvor's cheek. This was why he didn't want anyone knowing, he thought. It was just another reason to be weighed and found wanting. "Excuse me. I... have somewhere to be."

Thongvor made no move to stop him, and Vanik felt his eyes on his back as he hurried away. He felt as if he'd narrowly avoided some great calamity.

The rest of the afternoon was spent helping the old woman who owned the farm just outside the city dig up potatoes in exchange for a few gold pieces and some clean water. Miraculously, everything surrounding the city itself was unharmed, save the stables, which had been crushed in the fray, leaving several horses either dead, injured, or homeless. He tired quickly of her husband's bitter complaints, but neither of them seemed to know or care who he was, so he worked until his back ached and his nails were caked with dirt. He was considering what to do with his earnings when a man found him sitting by the lamppost.

"Are you Vanik?"

He was a Nord, tall and sturdy, and he wore a uniform with the Silver-Blood crest sewn onto its shoulder. Vanik sighed. There didn't seem to be much point to lying. "What is it?"

"I've come to fetch you for dinner."

"You've come to what?" 

"You've been invited to dinner as Thongvor Silver-Blood's guest," the man repeated patiently. "I'm to show you to his apartments."

Vanik thought it over. On the one hand, the prospect of having dinner with Thongvor was somehow both boring and suspicious. On the other hand, if it was a trap, it was a poorly constructed trap at best, and he was out of provisions. His stomach growled.

"Just out of curiosity, what happens if I say no?"

"You don't," the man said.

"I thought as much." Vanik got to his feet. Maybe Thongvor just wanted to be able to say he'd once dined with the Dragonborn. There was an inn not far from Markarth that kept turning business based entirely upon the claim that Tiber Septim had once slept there. "Lead the way."

The man was as good as his word; he took his leave silently upon delivering Vanik to his destination, and this was how Vanik came to find himself standing at the bottom of the stairs that lead to Thongvor's apartments, torn between his hunger and his pride. He'd been less conflicted about fighting the dragon.

"Vanik, right?" He snapped his head around to see Moth approaching, Ghorza and Tacitus flanking him. "What are you doing here?"

Funny how he'd just been asking himself the same thing. "I was invited."

It sounded strange leaving his mouth. He'd never been formally invited anywhere, unless you counted the summons to High Hrothgar that had thundered over the mountains last winter. If Moth found it surprising, he kept it to himself. "Well, come on up."

Vanik nodded and let them pass, relieved that he wouldn't be enduring dinner alone. The door at the top of the steps was unlocked, and as soon as he stepped over the threshold, Vanik's mouth started to water. Whatever they were having smelled incredible, even from the entryway. By the time they got to the dining room, it felt like his stomach was trying to devour itself.

Thongvor was already seated at the head of the long stone table, a goblet in his fist. He actually appeared pleased to see them. More like pleased to see Moth, Vanik thought, and tried not to think about what he'd witnessed the other day in the smithy. "Go on, have a seat. Food will be ready any minute now." 

There didn't appear to be any real protocol for seating, contrary to Vanik's expectation; Moth sat at his right hand, and Ghorza and Tacitus took the chairs closest to them. Vanik did the same, which left him at the other end, staring down the table at Thongvor. He wasn't wearing his armor for once, having exchanged it for a richly brocaded tunic and vest, and Vanik felt overdressed, even with the state of his armor. Tacitus seemed to sense his discomfort, because he passed the wine decanter with a sympathetic smile. 

"You left this afternoon before I had a chance to invite here you myself," Thongvor said, and Vanik drank half his wine in one go to avoid pointing out that an invitation without the option of saying no wasn't so much an invitation as an order.

He forced a polite smile as he set the goblet back down. "I had something important to attend to." 

"Of course," Thongvor said, and his tone suggested that this had better be the case. Luckily, the cook came out out of the kitchen just then to announce that dinner was ready, and Vanik was spared further conversation for the moment.

The sheer amount of food was staggering; two platters of roasted meat and fish with leeks and potatoes, glazed carrots, fruit and cheese, and fresh salad with a tureen of dressing and gravy each on the side. Vanik stared at all of it and wondered if he was dreaming, or possibly suffering from heat exhaustion. He'd known, of course, that there were plenty in Skyrim who were able to fill their bellies every night, but _knowing_ and _seeing_ were two separate beasts. He reached for the dish nearest to him, but Thongvor cleared his throat deliberately.

"Dragonborn." Vanik took his hand back reluctantly, and Thongvor raised his goblet. "You've done Markarth, and by extension my kin, a great service. Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vanik said, desperate to move off the subject. "So, do we eat now, or...?"

Moth coughed into his fist. It sounded like a laugh. Thongvor looked rather put out, but he nodded all the same and put down his cup.

For the first time in his life, Vanik understood what it was to be overwhelmed by choice. He had no idea where to start, so he ended up taking a bit of everything within reach, and ended up with a heaping plateful. He tried to pace himself at first, but the fish melted like butter on his tongue and the carrots were perfectly spiced and the fruit was so fresh and sweet he could have wept. He gave in and tore through it all with the grace of a starving sabrecat.

Ghorza watched him, fascinated. "Never seen an elf put it away like that before," she said approvingly. 

"When was the last time you ate?" Thongvor asked.

He ate slowly for a Nord, Vanik thought. He shrugged. "Earlier today. Before that, a day or two. Not much game around these parts lately."

"Damn Forsworn," Thongvor muttered.

"Take as much food as you want," Moth said, and nudged him. It was subtle, but Vanik caught it, half-hidden behind the bread bowl. 

"Right," Thongvor said, with a sideways glance at Moth. "There's plenty to go around."

"Thanks," said Vanik, who'd already been planning to take as much as he could carry. Thongvor looked at him like he wanted to say something, but then he turned to Ghorza and the three of them began discussing business. Vanik relaxed a little. He still wasn't sure why he was there, but a free meal was a free meal.

Eventually the talk of business turned into swapping war stories. Thongvor and the gro-Bagol siblings had a seemingly endless supply, and they interrupted and embellished and poked fun at each other as it suited them. There was pie for dessert, and Vanik ate two slices and listened to Moth and Ghorza tease Thongvor about something that happened on the border of Hammerfell back in their Legion days - something to do with a band of desert raiders and stolen clothing. They probably all fought in the Great War, he realized at one point, but none of them mentioned it, and he sensed it would be unwise to ask.

Thongvor laughed at something one of them said, and for a brief moment, the years melted away from his face. Vanik blinked. He looked like a different man without the dour glint in his eyes. Vanik's mind chose that precise moment to remind him that Thongvor also looked different when he was grinding himself against Moth's thigh, and Vanik coughed and hid his face in his napkin. Whatever they did in their spare time was none of his business. And hopefully, whatever point Thongvor was trying to make about the Silver-Blood's generosity or power or larder would be made to his satisfaction after dinner, and then there'd be no more reason for him to -

"What about you?" He looked up, jarred out of his thoughts, to see Moth watching him.

"What about me?"

"What were you doing before you came to Markarth?"

"Just a lot of wandering around, really. Odd jobs here and there." He poured himself some water. "Nothing so interesting as fighting a war."

"Nothing interesting," Thongvor scoffed. "Come on, let's have a story I haven't heard a thousand times." Ghorza made a disparaging noise and served herself another slice of pie. Moth kept quiet, his dark eyes still trained on Vanik. 

"How did you know?" Tacitus asked suddenly. It was the first thing he'd said all night. "That you were the Dragonborn, I mean."

Vanik thought it over as he drank his water. He didn't have much practice at talking about himself, but he did feel a little sorry for Tacitus, who looked as out of place as Vanik felt. Surely it wouldn't hurt to oblige him. "I guess that might be worth telling."

He'd never told anyone about Folgunthur. Mostly because he'd spent the last year traveling alone, without anyone to tell. The thing about traveling alone was that you only had yourself to rely on, and if you were starving or feeling reckless or greedy for a prize, there was no one to talk you down from whatever foolish path you embraced in your time of desperation. This, he explained, was how he ended up following the a journal he found at an abandoned campsite into some Nordic burial mound deep in Haafingar's marshes.

Vanik wasn't much of a storyteller even when he was feeling talkative, but this wasn't the kind of story that needed embellishment. He'd found the adventurers' bodies as he ventured further in, like the pieces of some grotesque puzzle. If it hadn't been the dead Nords roaming the halls, it was the traps that got them. It had been cold, and he'd only narrowly avoided death himself. He left out the part where he'd struggled with the puzzles, and talked about the dizzying stairs and bridges he'd climbed, and wading through the flooded lower tunnel, ivory dragon claw he'd found with the journal's author lashed to his belt.

He'd finally made it to the crypt, bedraggled and panting, after half a day or so, and there he'd nearly remained, locked in death's embrace with Mikrul Gauldurson's twice-slaughtered corpse. He still had the scars on his chest and sides to prove it. But he survived, and while in the process of collecting any remaining valuables, he'd heard chanting. It sounded very far away, and he followed it, wary, but strangely compelled to find the source. It had lead him to a hidden room off to the side, up another set of stairs, and it was there he'd found the Wall.

"I dunno how to describe it, but the chanting got louder and the writing started glowing, and it was like... like this word carved out space in my brain. I knew it was a word and I knew it meant cold, but I didn't know what language it was." He took a drink, suddenly self-conscious, unused to being the center of attention. "Thought maybe I dreamed it until I fought a dragon for the first time."

"When was that?" Thongvor asked, and he had to think about that for a moment too, counting the seasons backwards in his head.

"Maybe a month after that. I was headed to Dawnstar when it attacked." He remembered that day with a dreadful clarity that refused to fade. How lucky it was that he'd stocked up on health potions and had his axes freshly sharpened before leaving Dragon Bridge. He still dreamed that he didn't, sometimes. "Happened close enough to the city that some of the guards were able to help slay it."

Thongvor didn't say anything, but he looked thoughtful. Vanik suddenly remembered that Dawnguard had declared its support for Ulfric and his Stormcloaks when the war was first born, and that the soldiers who'd helped him were most likely Stormcloak supporters as well, and then he remembered where he was and stood up too fast, knee bumping the table leg. "I... I should get going. It's late."

To his relief, no one tried to detain him, and Thongvor had the cook fix him a basket full of leftovers to take with him. Moth, Ghorza and Tacitus all bid him a polite good-night and then he was nearly free, but Thongvor stopped him in the entryway. "You're welcome to stay longer."

Something about the way he said it made Vanik's skin prickle, and he edged towards the door. "My camp is outside the city. I really should go."

"You're not staying at the inn?"

Only Thongvor could make that sound like a personal slight, Vanik thought. "Rather stay outdoors. Camp's already set up."

"If it's a matter of money, consider it taken care of for the night," Thongvor said, casual as anything. "With my gratitude."

This was more than Vanik could bear. "Why are you being so generous?" he demanded, louder than he meant to be, and the hushed strains of conversation from the other room went silent. He lowered his voice, ears hot. "The food, your compliments, a room in your inn... what is it that you want from me?"

Thongvor was silent for a long moment, and the weight of his gaze was a heavy thing on Vanik's shoulders. "Do you know the Song of the Dragonborn?" Vanik shook his head. "The Dragonborn Comes? The Tale of the Tongues?"

"We didn't sing Nord ditties in the Gray Quarter."

"They're old songs," Thongvor said, leaning in. "I'm not surprised you don't know them." He was tall, even among Nords, and Vanik was forced to look up to meet his eyes. "But lately, bards have begun playing it again. Getting requests for it. They were singing them in the tavern the other night." When Vanik didn't respond, he straightened up, hand braced against the door frame. "The Dovahkiin is one of our legends. He is as much as part of Skyrim's blood as Talos and Ysgramor. As Kyne and the Ehlnofey. And now, like it or not, so are you, elf." Vanik glared at him, and he stared right back. "Right now, the hope you represent to her true sons and daughters is indispensable. As much as it pains me... you're needed in this fight."

Skyrim's _true_ sons and daughters. It was Thongvor's voice, but Ulfric Stormcloak's words on his tongue. Vanik felt sick. Nobody was ever kind just for kindness' sake.

"Thanks for the food," he said, and yanked the door open so fast the hinges rattled. It slammed behind him as he stepped out into the muggy night air, echoing angrily against the stone. For a moment, he considered setting it on fire. 

There was too much food now that he'd eaten, so he took it down to the caravan's usual camping spot and let the Khajiit have their pick of the spoils. Khayla gave him a bottle of juniper mead to wash his troubles down, and he drank it, even though he'd already had too much much to drink. _I was born here_ , he thought, staring into the fire. Smoke rose in a column and dispersed overhead on the breeze. _I was raised here, I bled here, I have a family. Am I not a true son of Skyrim?_ But the flames weren't forthcoming, and he fell asleep not long after, empty bottle still clutched in his hand.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanik needs to blow off steam, Moth definitely has a type, and the plot thickens.

The silver band was set with a chip of amethyst, and both were polished to gleaming. It was wide enough to slip comfortably over his gauntleted finger, and Vanik curled his hand around it in disbelief. "Your daughter made this... for me?"

Endon nodded, pride making his face shine. "She's a talented one, my Adara. She's helping her mother rebuild the stand today, but she made that the other night. Asked me to give it to you for getting rid of the dragon."

"I can't take this," Vanik said, but Endon refused to take it back.

"Consider it my family's thanks," he said, and so Vanik kept it, stowing it away in the bottom of his pack where no one would see it and be tempted to take it.

It wasn't just the silversmith and his family, either. He helped the clean up crews in the square, moving debris and replacing cracked and ruined stone where they could, and a few more citizens took the opportunity to approach him and offer their gratitude. It left him feeling somewhere between pleased and uncomfortable, and he was almost relieved when he went into the inn for a drink and the innkeeper and his wife ignored him in favor of sniping at each other about how the door wasn't being fixed fast enough. Their daughter brought him an ale and a glass, and he hadn't remembered her bodice being quite that low cut before.

"It's on the house," she whispered and winked at him. He slouched in his seat, ears hot. Was she flirting with him? He couldn't tell. Nobody had ever flirted with him before, as far as he knew, so maybe he was mistaken. He glanced over to where she was sweeping the hearth. She caught his eye and smiled coyly, and ale went up his nose. It was all he could do to finish his drink before fleeing the inn. 

Azura, she really had been. Flattery wrestled with terror for dominant emotion, only for both to lose out to suspicion. Was she only flirting with him because he was the Dragonborn? He hadn't considered that before, but it made a depressing amount of sense, if what Thongvor had said about him being a symbol of hope was true. He wandered across the bridge that crossed the canals, towards the keep, thoughts scattering every which way. He didn't want anything to do with people who wanted something because of who they'd decided he was. But there was still a part of him that basked in the novel sensation of being sought out, like a plant shifting its leaves to catch the sun's rays, and it was this part of himself that made him keenly aware of his own weaknesses.

There were few things more dangerous than wanting to be liked, where he came from. Others could smell it the way slaughterfish could scent blood in the water, and they weren't afraid to use it against you. _Stop it_ , he told himself, lingering at the foot of the bridge for a moment before moving on. _It doesn't matter if they like you or not._ He took a left and climbed the stairs to the keep.

Moth was working. Moth was always working, as far as Vanik could tell. He raised his hand in greeting as he crested the stairs. "How are you?"

"Fine," Moth grunted, not looking up from his workbench. "Something you need?"

"I wanted to know if your offer still stood."

"What offer?"

Vanik dug around in his pack and pulled out the sad remains of his previous set of armor. "To buy this for scrap."

Moth looked up this time - first at the armor, then at him, and his expression softened a little. "You sure?"

"I need money. Whatever you think it's worth." Guilt settled in the pit of his stomach like a stone.

Moth seemed to understand, though, because he took it from Vanik and unfolded it carefully, tracing the seams. "This was good quality when it was new. Well-made to hold out as long as it did." He rubbed his thumb across one patch. "Enchanted?"

"Yeah," Vanik said, surprised. "You can tell?"

"You do this as long as I have, you pick up a few things." Moth's strongbox held coin purses of various sizes, already counted and weighed, and he picked one out and set it on the table in front of Vanik. "This should cover it."

Vanik picked it up. Weighed it in his hands, frowning. "This can't be right."

"What, you want more?"

"No! I meant I think you gave me the wrong one. This is too much."

"You said whatever I thought it was worth," Moth reminded him with a hint of a smile. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," Vanik said, though he couldn't fathom what would drive Moth to pay that much for scrap. He looked at his armor one last time. The first year of his new life, and now it was just material. Bits and pieces that would be used to build other peoples' stories.

Moth followed his gaze, then went back over to the bench and pulled out the pouch with his leather-working tools. He examined the armor, then made four long, neat cuts down the side with a narrow blade. A thin strip of leather lifted away from the rest, and Moth laid it flat and trimmed away the frayed edges so it was smooth once again. Vanik kept quiet and watched him. Moth brought the strip back over to the table and pulled out the chair next to him.

"Take off your gauntlet." Vanik slid it off after a second's hesitation, and Moth took his wrist in one hand and looped the strand around it with a practiced ease. One, two, twist, three, and he was wearing a bracelet of sorts, tied off securely in three evenly-spaced coils. "There," Moth said. "Better?"

 _Why are you being so nice to me?_ Vanik almost asked him, but the words clogged his throat. Moth was nice to him before. He'd understood why Vanik wanted to pay for the armor. If he was being nicer still because Vanik was the Dragonborn, he didn't want to know; for some reason, the thought bothered him more now than ever. He tried making a joke of it instead. "No wonder you're so busy, if you're this generous to all your clients."

"Just the ones who bother to ask how I'm doing," Moth said. He was still holding Vanik's wrist in his hands. "What happened to your axes?"

"What? Oh. They broke when I killed that dragon. They were old." He should move his arm, he thought. Neither of them moved. "I'm saving up for better ones this time."

"Come to me when you're ready. I have a pair that would match your current armor." Moth's lips twitched. "Might as well look good while you're slaying dragons."

"That's why you're being so nice, isn't it? You just want to turn me into a walking advertisement for your business."

"Caught me." Moth had a nice smile, Vanik thought, a little dazed. Nice smile, broad shoulders, warm hands...

Involved with Thongvor Silver-Blood. 

Suddenly he couldn't put enough distance between them. Moth lowered his hands as Vanik jumped to his feet and backed away, fumbling with his gauntlet. "Well, thank you. For everything. I have to go, but... thank you."

"You're welcome," Moth said, caught off guard. He watched as Vanik snatched the coin purse off the table and left the shop, shoulders all hunched up like an angry cat. He thought about it, but couldn't pinpoint what he'd done. He hadn't meant to get ahead of himself, but there was something about Vanik he liked; a stubborn, angry vulnerability beneath the awkward bravado and wariness. It reminded him of Thongvor, though he knew neither of them would appreciate the comparison. Maybe he had a type. He sat back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He'd have to be more careful in the future.

"Back to work," he said aloud, and his voice echoed back at him off the walls of an empty room.

 

 _He has no business flirting with me_. The thought bounced around Vanik's skull as he stalked down a narrow alleyway, sun beating down on his neck and shoulders. It wasn't any hotter than the previous day, but he felt it more keenly, sweat dripping down his back and skin itching like it didn't fit quite right all of a sudden. He was angry and he didn't know why he was angry.

He emerged at the top of the stairs that went down past the entrance to the Warrens to the smelting docks, and the first strains of trouble caught his ears. He followed it over to the smelter, where a lone Reachman panted, drenched with sweat and grime, the sun's heat threatening to crisp his skin. The overseer stood over him, tapping a thick wooden switch against his palm.

"Mulush, please," begged the man, arms trembling as he strained at his shovel. "I can't work any faster."

"You'll work all night to fill today's quota, if that's what it takes."

The shovel clattered to the ground, and so did the man. He spread his soot-streaked hands out, palms up in pleading. "I need a break. Please, it's too hot - "

The overseer's switch lashed him across the cheek, and he fell back with a cry of pain, clutching his face. Vanik saw white. Then red. 

"Too much for you?" Mulush barked. "Thank your guttersnipe friends who decided they were too good to work here!"

He raised the switch again, but it never fell. Vanik seized it from his hands and hurled it away, into the water. Mulush whipped around to be met with bared teeth.

"Lay off him."

"This doesn't concern you." Mulush stepped to him, chest puffed and sneering. "Keep walking."

Vanik imitated him, cocking his head. "Last chance."

"Or what?" Mulush's words were confident, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and Vanik recognized it for what it was - a predator gone soft and indolent from easy pickings. He headbutted him. 

Too late, he wished he was wearing a helmet. Mulush bellowed and staggered backwards, nose gushing blood, and then his fist connected with Vanik's jaw and sent him sprawling. Vanik grinned and spat, red smeared across his teeth. 

Mulush was a brawler, all sweeping blows with fists like small boulders, but Vanik was faster and angrier and he tackled Mulush; they went to the ground, his knee in the overseer's gut. They grappled on the dock, trading blows and curses until Vanik's teeth sank into Mulush's ear and he let out a sound like a dying horker. The guards finally came running, two of them, and grabbed Vanik, trying to pry him loose. He got one last good kick in before they yanked him away, and then one of them pulled out their sword and put it to his throat in silent warning.

He stilled, and Mulush got to his feet, winded and bleeding. He jabbed his finger at Vanik's face and croaked, "You're going to spend the next six months in Cidhna Mine for this."

Vanik spat at him, blood dripping down his chin, and that act of defiance might have cost him if Thongvor Silver-Blood himself hadn't stepped onto the dock and demanded, "What in Oblivion is going on here?"

"Boss!" Mulush came to attention. "This arrogant little bastard tried to lay hands on me."

Thongvor looked between them, taking in the scene - Mulush with a torn ear and a broken nose, blood running down his neck and one tusk cracked, and Vanik with blood all over his face and one eye swollen shut, glaring at both of them - and then, he laughed. "Looks like he did a lot more than just try." He nodded at the bewildered guards. "Let him go." Mulush's face went pale with outrage. Vanik shrugged their hands off. Thongvor folded his arms, still looking amused. "Explain why you were trying to beat my overseer within an inch of his life."

Vanik looked around and spotted the Reachman cowering next to the smelter, clutching his face. "What's your name?"

"Omluag," the man stuttered.

"Thanks." He turned back to Thongvor. "Your fat-headed overseer - " Mulush bared his teeth " - was about to tan Omluag here like new leather. Your one currently able-bodied worker, by the way. Probably because he works them until they break or quit."

Mulush took a step towards him, but Thongvor held up a hand and he stopped, face twisted with anger.

"Is this true?"

"Boss - "

"What happened to the other workers?"

Mulush hesitated. "Hrathsil was injured on the job," he said. "Eltrys quit. Weylin... you heard about the attack on the market. Degaine's useless. The rest are sick."

"Wonder why," Vanik said snidely.

Thongvor turned towards Mulush, who was looking less and less confident by the second. "Answer me this. How am I supposed to run a business with no workers?"

"I... don't know."

"Of course not. Because you don't _think,_ " Thongvor said. "So you're going to give this man his full day's wages, out of your own pocket, and then you're going to finish up the rest of his quota. Maybe next time you'll use whatever's left of your brain before doing something stupid. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Mulush said, spitting venom at both Vanik and Omluag with his eyes.

Vanik stared back until he slumped away, and the guards returned to their post. He looked up at Thongvor, squinting; the sun was in his eyes. "What are you playing at?"

"My gods, elf," Thongvor said. "What does it take to make you happy?"

"That's what I mean! What do you care if I'm happy?" His hair had come loose from its tie, and he raked it out of his eyes. His skin felt tacky, blood drying fast in the sun, and he scrubbed at his chin. "And my name is Vanik. Not elf."

"My apologies, Vanik," Thongvor sounded almost sincere. "We don't need to be enemies."

Vanik scowled at him, unnerved by the shift in his behavior, and brushed by him to help Omluag to his feet. The man still hadn't moved, seemingly in shock. "Come on, you should get that looked at."

"I can't go to the keep," Omluag protested, trying to free himself. "That's not for the likes of me. I'll just go back to the Warrens and get some rest - "

"Don't be an idiot," Vanik said tersely, but let him go all the same. "Go to the Warrens, then. I'll make sure someone comes to take a look at you. All of you." Omluag fled, and Vanik glanced over at Thongvor. "These people are the backbone of your business. You could at least pretend to give a shit."

"My brother handles the business side of our operations," Thongvor said dismissively. "You were lucky I happened to be passing by."

"You know," Vanik said, struggling to keep his temper in check, "Moth seems to think you're a good man." Thongvor's jaw tightened, like he was waiting for a blow to land. "But from where I'm standing, all you've done is make him look like a fool."

 

Verulus didn't have much to do now that burial rites were concluded for those lost in the dragon attack, so part of him was grateful for the reprieve from his vigil. He did, however, think it was unnecessary to be marched down from the keep like a criminal attempting to flee, and said as much. Not that Vanik seemed to care. He'd shown up covered in blood and bruises and said, "You're coming with me." Verulus had barely gotten him to hold still long enough to heal his injuries.

"Why are you covered in blood every time I see you?" he asked now.

"It gets results." They came to the door that led into the Warrens. "These people are sick. They're hurt. Why don't you come here on your own?"

"I have," Verulus said, stung. "They don't want to accept charity."

"Charity and pity can be hard to tell apart," Vanik said. "Tell Omluag I sent you. If the rest see you treating him, they'll probably let you see to them, too."

Why are you doing this, Verulus wanted to ask. But then he thought maybe he already knew, looking at Vanik's face. So he cleared his throat and nodded instead.

"I'm happy to come back whenever they need. Perhaps you can persuade them not to turn me away."

"Persuade them yourself," Vanik said. "Show them you're not like the rest."

 

That night, Vanik gave up and stayed at the inn. He'd had to fight off a pair of stray wolves who'd come sniffing around his campsite the other night, and wolves were one thing, but bears and sabrecats roamed the hills too, and he didn't like his chances without weapons on hand. That, and he was getting tired of sleeping in his armor. Nightfall found him stripping down to nothing and scrubbing the sweat and grime from his skin until he no longer smelled like he spent the last week sleeping on the ground in full kit. Then he crawled into the nest of furs he made on the bed and collapsed, head buzzing with exhaustion.

He wanted to sleep, but his muscles were tense and too many thoughts kept him from his rest - Moth's hand on his wrist, the pretty barmaid, his forehead crunching Mulush's nose, Thongvor asking what it took to make him happy - and he groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pressing his cheek against the cool stone. Summer made people mad, and he was finding himself more afflicted than ever; the heat brought out something sharp and restless in him. He didn't know what he wanted, but he _wanted,_ and he dug his fingers into the furs and bit his lip, frustrated. He felt like he was going to claw his way out of his skin.

He was also half-hard, and when he brought his hips down, a little flicker of pleasure made his stomach clench. He jerked off occasionally - sometimes it got boring all alone in the wilderness, and it helped him sleep - but it was never like this. It never felt like a need. But he needed, right now, and he wrapped his hand around his cock and let his mind wander.

He didn't care much about gender, on the rare occasions he'd found himself attracted to someone. He'd always had a bit of a crush on both Niranye and Idesa growing up, and on Scouts-Many-Marshes, who would talk to him when he helped out around the docks for a few spare septims. But it seemed wrong to touch himself to thoughts of them, so he kept going until he remembered a few months back, when he'd drifted into Whiterun. He'd gone up to Dragonsreach to ask for work. The Jarl there clearly didn't share the same ideals as Ulfric - his housecarl was a fierce, battle-scarred Dunmer woman of whom Vanik was in awe - and he'd been every inch a former warrior, commanding but fair, still ready to pick up his sword and defend his people if the time ever came...

He realized he was grinding himself against the bed again and stopped. A Nord twice his age. Really? But he was so hard now it ached, and Balgruuf had nice eyes and even nicer arms, so he shrugged it off and lost himself in a fantasy of saving Whiterun from a dragon, and the Jarl showing his gratitude after the court had retired for the evening. Preferably on his throne. He was starting to get close, biting his tongue to keep quiet, when the fantasy shifted without warning and it was Moth sucking him off, cradling his thighs in those big hands, and Thongvor was leaning against the wall, watching them. His hips jerked forward and he came in his hand with a muffled grunt.

He was disgusted with himself immediately. He wiped his hand clean on a rag and and blew out the candle, letting the room sink into darkness, tense and unhappy all over again. The summer heat really was driving him mad.

 

Two weeks.

Two weeks gone, and with no sign of her, he was forced to conclude that Lisbet was dead. He could feel it with a kind of grim certainty. She wouldn't have run off and left him with no warning, and so he proceeded as if he were investigating a murder. His wife was absorbed in her own pursuits and didn't care much what he did - a blessing at times like this - as long as it didn't interfere with her getting what she wanted. He admired Betrid's ruthless sense of self-preservation; it was the reason he'd married her. But she wouldn't have been pleased if it came to light that he was funneling resources into investigating his lover's disappearance, and that was a headache neither jewels nor new clothes could fix, so he'd gone about it carefully.

Two others had disappeared at the same time. The butcher and the dog trainer at the stables were missing as well, and so he'd put out feelers in all directions and waited, like a spider in the center of its web. Spiders were unfairly maligned, in his eyes. All they did was weave. Their prey did the rest. And soon, the whispers came back to him, as they always did. He had eyes and ears everywhere. She went off into the mountains, they said. She never came back, they said.

Why she had gone, he didn't know. Would never really know. So he turned his focus to finding out why she hadn't returned.

A trail of well-placed bribes had lead him to the priest who tended the Hall of the Dead. He recalled his brother complaining about it being closed a few weeks ago. The priest wasn't seen leaving the city, he was told, but he was spotted stumbling back, dirty and terrified. The next day, the Hall of the Dead had reopened. It was as good a lead as any. He had his men pay Verulus a visit. He didn't want excuses, he told them. He wanted a name.

He had one within the hour.

"I want this handled discreetly," he warned his men now, seated behind his desk. "Bring him to me through the servant's entrance. Don't kill him, but make sure he stays quiet."

They nodded as one. He'd picked three of his strongest, not willing to make the mistake of underestimating this new enemy. He dismissed them and poured himself a glass of wine. He was not a man given to sadness. Lisbet's death had kindled a cold anger in him, and he refused to waste any of it with mourning or grief. Not when he could spend it exacting retribution from her killer.

He sipped his drink, and for the first time in weeks, Thonar Silver-Blood smiled.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanik receives an offer he can't refuse.

The cuffs were silenced, and Vanik's wrists bled where they cut into him. There was pain - his blackened eyes, his broken nose, his aching ribs - but it was a distraction from the horrible void where his magica should have been, so he clung to it, breathing through his teeth. Thonar wiped the blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. He was wearing a silver ring with an enormous ruby mounted in the center. It glistened wetly in the candlelight. There was a perfect imprint of it on Vanik's cheek.

"I'll ask you once more. And this time, I want the truth."

"I'm _telling_ you the truth," Vanik said, hoarse. His throat felt raw and the inside of his mouth tasted like rusty iron. He didn't know how long he'd been here, on his knees in Thonar's study. It was likely only a few hours, but it felt like days, or weeks.

Thonar chuckled. It sounded wrong, like something inhuman imitating what it thought laughter might sound like. "My brother might be impressed by your title, Dragonborn, but you'll find I'm not as easily fooled." He dabbed at a speck of blood on his wrist. "Don't look so surprised. Everything that happens in Markarth is my business."

"Then why didn't you know your lover was eating dead people?"

He was braced for it, but he still doubled over when Thonar drove his foot into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He ended up on his side, gasping for air, and Thonar stood over him. He no longer looked amused. "You're claiming Lisbet was a Namira worshipper. That's a serious accusation. I would think long and hard before you proceed."

Vanik struggled upright. His hands were bound in front of him, but they were numb, and not much help. "Her, and the dog trainer, and the butcher," he rasped, staring Thonar dead in the eye. "He was probably feeding human flesh to the whole city for gods know how lo- "

Thonar's fist crunched against his nose, and pain burst white-hot in his head, fresh blood gushing down his face and dripping off his chin as he fell backwards, fat red drops sprinkling the rug and flagstone like rain. _Why are you covered in blood every time I see you?_ Verulus' voice echoed in his head, and he laughed hysterically, red froth on his lips.

"You're staining my rug," Thonar said, and his foot caught Vanik in the ribs again. Pain lanced up his side and he howled, trying to curl up and away from the pain on instinct. Thonar put his foot on Vanik's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, pinning him in place. "Then again, I shouldn't expect someone like you to have any manners." Vanik gagged and spat at him, blood and mucus flooding his throat. Thonar's boot moved from his shoulder to his chest and bore down. Each breath felt like a knife in his lungs, and his head spun. "Suffocating isn't a pretty way to go." Thonar sounded as if he was speaking from far away. "Then again, death so rarely is."

Vanik coughed and spat at him again feebly. He could feel himself fading into the pain, vision going dark around the edges, but he hung onto consciousness stubbornly. Without him, who would send money home? He didn't always have a lot, but it was better than nothing, Revyn and Ambarys couldn't support the whole Gray Quarter on their own...

His thoughts grew more scattered, and his breath came out shuddery and wet, pain radiating outward from his chest and paralyzing his limbs. A door slammed in the distance, and angry, muffled shouting started up from elsewhere in the Treasury House. The pressure on his chest was suddenly gone, and he gasped and rolled onto his uninjured side, vomiting up blood and struggling to fill his lungs. He thought maybe he heard his name, but then darkness rose up and sucked him down into its depths, and he knew no more.

 

He woke abruptly in an unfamiliar place, sweaty and sore but alive. Disoriented, he tried to sit up, but a pair of hands took his shoulders and pressed him back onto the pillows. "Easy," said a voice that was becoming more familiar by the day. "Don't try to get up."

Vanik wanted to argue, but he was too tired, so he just laid still instead. He was surrounded by warmth and softness and no longer in pain, but exhaustion gnawed at his bones, and he fell back asleep not long after. When he woke again, he was ravenous and parched, and he was alone.

He sat up gingerly and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was laying in the biggest bed he'd ever seen, with polished wooden posts at all four corners and soft linen sheets. A cup of water and a bowl of berries sat on the nightstand, and he ate them by the fistful and drained the cup while he took stock of the room, water slopping down his chin. It was as plain and sparsely furnished as a prison cell, no decoration or ornament to be found. The bed seemed out of place. He grimaced and sucked berry juice and seeds from his fingers.

"Glad to see you're awake." Thongvor appeared in the doorway like he'd been summoned, wearing plainclothes and holding a plate of bread and cold cuts of meat. Vanik's mouth started to water. "The priest said you'd be hungry after that much healing. Here."

He handed the plate over, and Vanik attacked it like it might be his last meal. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, spraying crumbs all over the sheets.

Thongvor scowled. "I keep asking myself the same thing. Especially with your particular brand of gratitude."

"Are you that determined that have me indebted to you?"

"Why do you keep saying that?" 

Vanik swallowed his mouthful. "Because you keep doing the right thing for the wrong reasons." They glared at one another. "How did you even know what was happening?"

"Nothing goes on in my inn without my knowledge." Thongvor crossed his arms. "I spoke with my brother while you were recuperating, after he calmed down."

"Calmed down? He's mad! He - "

"I _also_ spoke with the priest while he was bringing you back from the brink of death," Thongvor said, raising his voice slightly. "He was willing to verify your story under oath."

There was a pause. "Oh," Vanik said.

"My brother, he... he holds grudges. We both do," Thongvor admitted, and his weathered face was no longer irritated, just solemn. "But I believe you. Not that it would matter either way, but I believe you."

"What do you mean, not that it would matter?"

"You are Dovahkiin. And with the dragons returning, and the old stories... Skyrim will have need of you yet. I can feel it."

"Great," Vanik muttered. "Thanks."

"And, more importantly, this is twice now that you've saved Markarth from a terrible fate." Thongvor's voice softened a bit with what sounded like genuine gratitude. "Thank you."

Vanik looked at him, and for the first time he saw no posturing, no arrogance; the man that stood before him was weary, and loved his city as fiercely as he would a child, even more than his own brother. He set the empty dishes aside and cleared his throat, examining the bedspread. It was squares in different shades of blue, and each square was outlined and stitched with thin silver thread. "Well, you saved my life this time, so... uh." He cleared his throat again. He was having a hard time meeting Thongvor's eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome to stay here for the night," Thongvor offered after a long pause. "I have a spare room. No safer place in the city."

"While you try to convince your brother not to murder me, you mean? Thanks, but no thanks." He threw the covers and sheets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Luckily, he was still clothed from the waist down. "Where's my armor?"

"I had all your things brought here from the inn, but - "

"Where is it?"

"Spare room at the end of the hall." Vanik brushed past him and stumbled out into the hallway, muscles protesting, and Thongvor followed. His armor was laid out neatly on the spare bed, pack and bedroll on the floor next to the dresser, and he picked up his greaves. "Cannibals, dragons, Silver-Blood hospitality... Markarth is almost as determined to kill me as your kin."

"My family has a long reach," Thongvor warned him, looming in the doorway. "And Thonar won't give up just because you left Markarth."

"Try not to sound like you're bragging when you say that."

"Elf - Vanik." Vanik spared him a glance as he finished buckling his greaves. He thought that might be the first time Thongvor had addressed him by name without prompting. "My brother is not someone you want as an enemy, and I didn't put my neck on the line for you so you could get yourself killed. I have a solution, but it's going to require you to listen to reason." Vanik ignored him, fastening his cuirass, and Thongvor stomped up to him and grabbed his hand, forcing him to stop. "Quit being so stubborn and _listen_ to me, damn you!"

"Fine!" Vanik jerked his hand away with a snarl. "What is it, then? What's your grand idea?"

"Come work for me."

"Work for you?" Vanik laughed and finished putting on his cuirass and gauntlets. He was still chuckling as he picked up his boots. "Right. And then what? Join the Stormcloaks? Bend my knee to Ulfric, say I'll champion him as the king of Skyrim?"

Thongvor looked at him.

Vanik's boots hit the floor.

"Oh, gods," he said. "You're serious."

"You'd be my liaison, and under my protection. He'd be breaking our code if he tried to move against you." There was no humor in Thongvor's tone. "You'd be compensated fairly. Think about it."

"Has this been your plan all along?" Vanik had to lean against the bed to catch his breath for a moment. He felt dizzy all over again, but for an entirely different reason this time. "To back me into a corner where I have no choice but to say yes?"

"Your constant insults against my person are beginning to wear thin," Thongvor growled. "I have shown you _nothing_ but kindness - "

"That's the problem! You're only kind when you want something, or when someone's important!" He jabbed his finger at Thongvor. "I've seen the way your workers live, I've seen the poor, and I've heard how anyone who crosses you or your brother ends up in the mines. You may love this city, but you don't give a _shit_ about those whose backs she's built on."

There was a bowl of fruit sitting on the nightstand, and Thongvor picked it up and threw it. Vanik flinched as it smashed against the opposite wall, berries smeared and dripping across the stone and bruised apples rolling across the floor. "Get out."

"You - "

"Go!" Thongvor shouted, pointing at the door. "Go on then!"

Vanik swore at him in Dunmeris and left, slamming the door behind him. Thongvor's final words rang hollow and furious in his ears.

_Fool elf._

 

"You should have said yes."

Vanik stared at Verulus, mouth open. He was sure he must have misheard at first. "Are you mad?"

Verulus continued folding bandages, expression unchanged. "I'm perfectly lucid. And serious." They were deep in the bowels of the Hall of the Dead, where he kept his supplies. He didn't seem any worse for the wear after his encounter with Thonar's men, if you discounted the deep purple bags beneath his eyes and the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. "The kind of protection Thongvor is offering you is powerful. The Silver-Bloods are... ruthless. To say the least. But they don't go against family."

"I don't want his protection," Vanik said, even though he knew he sounded petulant. "And this isn't out of the goodness of his heart. He wants to use me as a weapon."

"You're not wrong, I'm sure," Verulus said mildly, packing the bandages into a woven basket, along with several different potions and tonics. "But perhaps you could try looking at it a different way."

"How do you mean?"

"When I was treating your wounds the other night, you were delirious, and kept trying to talk. Most of it was nonsense, but you did apologize to someone named Ambarys, and Revyn, and Idesa... your family back in Windhelm, I assume?" Vanik looked away, cheeks darkening to indigo. "You were asking them not to work so hard. Telling them 'I'll send more soon'." He gave Vanik a tired smile. "I'm no great fan of Thongvor, but he is keen on keeping you around as Markarth's champion. With a bit of negotiation, you could make sure none of your loved ones ever go hungry again."

Vanik opened his mouth, and then closed it, too overwhelmed to speak. His emotions warred against one another in a bright jumble. His was embarrassed by his own selfishness - that he hadn't thought of it first, really - and while the thought of being a Silver-Blood lapdog made his skin crawl, there was a glimmer of hope there too, shining at the core. "I don't know if I can do it," he said. "It'll mean that I can send them coin, yeah, but it won't make the Nords treat them or the Argonians any better."

"One thing at a time," Verulus reminded him gently. "We all have to make sacrifices we would rather not. I, for instance, have a beautiful wife and daughter whom I left in Cheydinhal when I came here to further my studies."

"You do?" He hadn't pictured Verulus as a husband, or a father, but it made sense. He seemed the domestic sort. "Why don't you go back?"

"Growth takes time. So does change." The priest's mouth curled up at the corner, sly. "And I imagine your newfound influence would allow you to make changes around here as well, eventually."

"It might."

"Perhaps making the Warrens livable, or opening an infirmary." Verulus packed a few more potions into the basket. "Increasing wages for workers. Opening a school. Think about it."

"Markarth's Champion," Vanik mused, and the glimmer of hope grew into embers. "Do you think I can really do it?"

"I think if you can slay a dragon, you can handle working for Thongvor Silver-Blood." Verulus stood, tucking the basket's handle in the crook of his arm. "I should be going. I think some of the sick may allow me to treat them today, now that Omluag and Hathrasil have made a full recovery."

"Okay. Thanks for the advice." Vanik scratched the back of his neck. "Although, before you go, I was wondering..."

"Hm?"

"Everyone calls them the Silver-Blood family, but there are only two of them. Why is that?"

Verulus was silent. "No, I suppose you wouldn't know," he said finally. "I've heard the story, but I think you would be better off asking Moth or Ghorza gro-Bagol. They were there."

"Alright," Vanik said, confused, and Verulus nodded at him and excused himself. He was at the stairs when Vanik called after him. "Hey." Verulus looked back at him. "What are their names?"

"What?"

"Your wife and daughter. What are their names?"

A smile broke through Verulus' clouded expression like sunrise.

"Una," he said. "Ysabel and Una."

 

Vanik wasn't sure he was ready to face Moth after the way their last meeting had ended - partly because he was embarrassed about how he'd reacted, and partly because he was still a little sore about the flirting. He didn't like being teased. He went to see Ghorza instead. She was crouched in front of the  rack, scraping a tanning knife along the skin she'd fastened to each corner. Tacitus was off running some errand or another. When he asked, she looked startled, then grim. "Why do you want to know?"

"Just curious, I guess." He sat on the low stone wall across from her and watched her work for a minute. "Didn't know it was such a touchy subject."

"Man's entire family is put to death, he doesn't usually care to bring it up in conversation," she said.

Vanik had started cleaning the grime from under his nails with the tip of his dagger, but at her words his head snapped up. "What?"

Ghorza grunted in a way that might have been a sigh and stood up, her knees creaking. "You didn't hear this from me, got it?" She set the knife on the workbench and turned to face him. "You're from Windhelm, right? You must have heard of the Markarth Incident. That's what the Empire calls it, anyway."

"A bit. I know Ulfric took Markarth back from the Forsworn after they overthrew the original government, but..." He shrugged. "I'll put it this way. If we talked about Ulfric, it wasn't to discuss his accomplishments."

"Heh." Ghorza sat on the wall opposite him. "When the war ended, Moth and I didn't have anywhere to go. He couldn't return to the stronghold unless he wanted to challenge our brother Marzul for his spot as chief, and I would have ended up as some other chief's forge-wife. So we came here with Thongvor instead. He said Markarth was in need of talented smiths. But Thongvor had been away a long time." Her expression became remote, like she was looking right through Vanik into the past. "A year or two before the war ended, the Reachmen took advantage of the lack of protection and captured the city. Said it was rightfully theirs to begin with. It was a peaceful rule for the most part, from what I hear, but try to say that within earshot of the keep and see how well you fare. Anyway, they left most of the citizens alone, but they put the worst of the Nord landowners to death, as payback for the way their people had been treated. Thongvor's father was one of those Nords."

"Ah."

"His mother and brothers and sister were allowed to live and stay in the city, as long as they didn't cause trouble. Madanach and his council let me 'n Moth stay, didn't see any issue with us, but Thongvor was the eldest son of one of their worst enemies, so of course they kicked him out. Threatened to kill him if they caught him in the Reach again."

"Who's Madanach?"

"King of the Forsworn. He - "

"Wait. Brothers and sister?"

Ghorza scowled at him. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

"Sorry, sorry."

"Like I was saying, they banished Thongvor. Didn't see him again until Ulfric and his men came knocking a few months later. Between you 'n me, those few months weren't bad at all... not for those of us who just wanted to live in peace. But Thongvor wanted revenge. So did Igmund. Madanach and his Forsworn killed the old Jarl when they took over Markarth. The two of them were behind the war council that pushed the Empire to accept help from Ulfric's militia. Not that you'd know it now, not with the bad blood between them, but at the time they hated the Forsworn more than they hated each other. And while they were off doing that, the rest of his clan was plotting a coup. Well, everyone 'cept Thonar..."

She trailed off, thinking aloud. "Pretty sure Thongvor was sending Thonar messages secretly. I figure it was secret, anyhow, or Madanach would have found out and killed them both. But Thongvor must've told Thonar what was coming, because I guess Thonar wouldn't have anything to do with the coup. Told them to lay low and they'd rebuild when the dust settled. I never met their father, but by all accounts he was like Thonar. Cold, cunning, had a real nasty bite to him. But Lady Silver-Blood... well, Thongvor and the rest of his siblings definitely took after her. Not a cool head among them. They didn't listen."

"They tried to overthrow the uprising on their own?"

"Too much pride there. They might've been fine if they'd waited a few more months. They had connections, people who wanted to fight alongside them, but the Forsworn... they have old magic on their side. Wild magic. Hagravens, witchblades, undead warriors with no hearts, among other things. And Madanach had spies everywhere. That coup was over before it began." Ghorza shook her head. "Put 'em all on the block. Only time I ever remember an execution before the rebellion. Thonar wasn't part of it, but they threw him in prison all the same. Think he was still in there when Ulfric and his men came. Thongvor came home a second time to find death waiting for him, and he ain't been the same since. Especially around this time of year."

"That... explains a lot," Vanik said.

Ghorza picked up the tanning knife again. "Like I said. You didn't hear it from me. Probably best not to mention it at all, if I were you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Good. Now go bother my brother if you want company. I'm busy."

Vanik thanked her and let her be. He ended up wandering aimlessly down by the canals until he got to the market square, and from there he climbed the stairs up to the ramparts and sat on the wall, the Reach laid out before him as far as the eye could see. The archers patrolling nearby glanced at him curiously as they passed, but no one bothered him. He hugged his knees to his chest and rested his chin there, lost in thought.

The sun was beginning to set, drenching everything amber and gold, and a torchbug flitted past his nose and danced away. Ghorza's story hadn't made him like Thongvor more, but he thought maybe he understood. He couldn't imagine wanting anything but suffering for his family's killers either. Even though night was falling, the air was still warm and muggy, and he wished he could go for a swim in the river, but he didn't feel safe leaving the city just yet. Now that he'd had time to calm down, the cold reality of his situation was beginning to set in.

Thonar was smart; he probably wouldn't try anything now, while Vanik was on high alert and wary. He was the type to let you unwittingly tighten the noose around your own neck. Unless he knew Vanik thought that, and was planning to strike before he could accept Thongvor's protection. Not that Vanik wanted it, gods no, but it was starting to look like he had little choice in the matter. Thonar probably had people watching Vanik right now, waiting for him to get comfortable and slip up...

 _I'm not afraid of him._ But he felt better within city limits all the same. Thonar was less likely to try something with witnesses present. He hoped.

He stayed on the wall until twilight swept in and lit the sky up with stars and the twin curve of the moons, and then he climbed down and set off for Thongvor's apartments. He was halfway there before it occurred to him that the offer might not still be open. He'd been cornered and let his emotions get the best of him, and there were limits to Thongvor's generosity. Even for the Dragonborn. He stared up at the residential district, and dread settled heavy in the pit of his stomach. He was going to have to do the unthinkable.

He was going to have to apologize.

 

Thongvor didn't shut the door in his face, which was promising, but he wouldn't let Vanik in either, which was less so. "Come to insult me again, have you?"

"No." At least that much was true. "Just to talk."

"Be quick about it."

"I..." Vanik took a deep breath. _Think of home. Think of the difference you could make here. You can do this._ "I wanted to apologize for earlier. You saved my life, and I was... harsh." Thongvor didn't say anything, so he kept going, starting to sweat. "I've had some time to consider your offer, and maybe we could work something out, if it's still... I mean, if the offer still stands - "

Thongvor slammed the door in his face.

Vanik was used to having doors shut in his face, so he knocked again and waited. When there was no answer, he knocked again, and then a third time. Panic was starting to set in, and he bit his tongue to keep from Shouting the door down and knocked until he was pounding both fists against the wood. He kept it up until Thongvor threw the door open again and loomed over him, backlit by the light pouring out from the entryway.

"You have some nerve," he said darkly.

"I know," Vanik said. "But I am sorry."

"I don't give a skeever's arse if you're sorry." Thongvor's lip curled. "But, lucky for you, a situation has arisen, and I need someone who can handle it before it gets any worse."

"Right now?" Vanik asked, taken aback. Thongvor's eyes narrowed. "Not a problem. I can handle it."

"Go to the keep and see Moth. Shop's closed, but tell him I sent you and it's an emergency. Get whatever you need - axes, a new set of armor, I don't care. Just make it fast. Then go down to Left Hand Mine and find a man called Skaggi Scar-Face. He'll fill you in on the rest. Got it?"

"Yeah. Anything else?"

"Just get it done," Thongvor said. "Then we'll talk."


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanik deals with Thongvor's emergency, and Moth takes a risk.

Whatever the nature of his mysterious emergency task, Vanik was pretty sure he could handle it. He wasn't the most experienced fighter, or the most graceful, but he prided himself on being hard to kill. He and death circled one another like wild dogs, locked in a stalemate. It wouldn't last forever, of course, but he was young enough to pretend otherwise. And if it did get the best of him this time, Thonar wouldn't get the satisfaction of killing him first. Small mercies.

Moth, Ghorza and Tacitus were eating dinner, and all three of them looked up with varying degrees of surprise when he came striding through the doorway. "Vanik?" Moth paused with his goblet halfway to his lips. "What's going on?"

"Shop's closed," Ghorza said, and tore off a bite of the enormous haunch of venison in front of her.

"Thongvor sent me. He said to tell you it's an emergency."

"What emergency?"

"How should I know? He just said to get my axes replaced and go down to the mine." Vanik pushed his hair out of his eyes, then swore. "I left my helmet at his apartments this morning. Do you have a spare I can borrow? I assume I'm going to be fighting something. Probably several things."

Moth pushed his chair back. "Hold on a minute. I'll go look."

Vanik looked at his mostly-full plate and instantly felt guilty. "I'm sorry for interrupting your dinner."

"It's alright." 

"Thongvor's the one who should be sorry," Ghorza said. "He doesn't care if we're eating."

"Are you hungry?" Tacitus asked. "There's some extra."

"No," Vanik said, even though he was. "Thanks though."

"Here." Moth plunked an elven helm into his hands. "Last one in stock. Bring it back tomorrow."

He unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and went to one of the display cases along the back wall. He unlocked it, whistling an unfamiliar tune, and opened the glass cover. The axes he removed were delicate, intricately carved golden handles bearing designs of wings and flowers with moonstone inlay, and the the blades glittered silvery-blue in the candlelight. He handed them to Vanik, who hefted them experimentally, testing their weight. They were light and perfectly balanced, like they'd been made for his hands. He looked up at Moth in awe.

"These are incredible."

"They're some of my finest work. So don't treat them like your old ones. No hacking away at things like an amateur butcher."

Moth's voice was stern but his eyes were warm, and Vanik was suddenly glad that he was too busy to be nervous. His heart beat a little faster anyway. "I'll be good to them." Thongvor had said whatever he needed, and if he was going to be beholden to the man, he might as well make the most of it. "Send the bill to Thongvor. He's paying."

Moth's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "He is."

"It's a long story, and I have to go." Vanik hooked the axes onto his belt. "Thank you, and sorry again."

"Good luck," Tacitus said.

"Try to come back in one piece," Ghorza said.

"There might be dinner if you do," Moth added, and smiled at him. Vanik nearly walked into the doorframe, and Ghorza's bellow of laughter followed him down the stairs and out into the night.

 

A few hours ago, there had been twenty men working in Kolskeggr. Now there were two. "Pavo and Gat are the only survivors," Skaggi said. His armor was only fastened on from the waist down, like he'd rolled out of bed and hadn't had time to bother with the rest, and he held a torch, illuminating half the barracks. "I sent word to the Jarl, but between the war and the Forsworn attacking travelers, the guards are stretched thin enough as it is."

"That's why I'm here," Vanik said.

Skaggi looked him over, taken aback. "There's an entire band of Forsworn holed up in there!"

"I can handle it." Vanik went over to the miners huddled on the steps. Pavo was an older Breton man with a heavily bandaged arm, linens stained red, and Gat was an Orc with bandaged knuckles and a patch over one eye. Their clothes were ripped and dirty, splotched with blood. "Anything the two of you can tell me will help."

"Six or seven scouts, couple of archers," Gat said. "They're bad enough on their own, but they also have a Briarheart with them." Pavo shuddered.

"Briarheart?"

"Forsworn who let the hags they worship rip their hearts out in exchange for more power," Skaggi said, disgust plain in his voice. "It ain't natural."

These must be the undead warriors Ghorza had mentioned, Vanik thought. "Can they be killed?"

"You have to take the briar out of their chest," Gat said. "Good luck getting close enough."

"I'll manage. Any other entrances or exits I should know about?"

"Just the main one. They'll probably have guards posted by now, if they're smart."

"Thanks." He nodded at them. "If the Jarl does send anyone, tell them to check and make sure the roads are clear."

"We will," Skaggi said, and Gat crackled his knuckles.

Pavo looked up at Vanik. He'd been silent until now, and his eyes were sunken and haunted.

"Kill them all," he said.

 

Kolskeggr was about a half mile down the road, and Vanik cut off the road into the brush and climbed the hill like he was headed to the Lovers' Stone. When he got there, he climbed down to the rocky plateau that jutted out over the entrance to the mine, and slithered to the edge on his belly. The night was dark and the torches mounted next to the door had been snuffed out, but as his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the shapes below. Two guards at the door, two patrolling the road a short distance away.

He drew his axes and raised himself into a crouch, bracing his toes against the stone. Then he dropped down soundlessly, the edge of his blade catching the first guard in the neck. The second Forsworn fumbled for his sword a second too late; Vanik's axes buried themselves in his chest and throat. He yanked them free and blood sprayed hot across his face, trickled down his hands and arms. Both bodies crumpled to the ground, and the other two scouts came running to investigate the noise, weapons drawn. He dashed down the ramp to meet them and dropped the first one before she could scream, slashing her throat and belly open with a single sideways motion, and the other lost his grip on his bow and ran. He made it less than ten paces.

Vanik pulled the axe out of the man's back and looked around. The night remained as calm and still as ever. He went back up the ramp to the door and pushed it open slowly, making sure no one was waiting to ambush him on the other side. The coast was clear, so he slipped inside and bolted it securely behind him. _It's just you and me now, friends._

Under other circumstances, he might have lingered over the ore veins glittering in the rock face. He'd never seen so much gold in one place. But all he really saw was broken bodies and swathes of blood splashed across stone and dirt as he slunk down the main tunnel to the interior chamber, and by the time he reached the mouth of the tunnel he was sick with anger. It was one thing to fight the rich, or the militia, or even himself. It was another thing entirely to slaughter an entire civilian workforce in cold blood.

He counted four in the center of the main chamber, crowded around a long wooden table. A series of walkways and platforms on one side lead up to a tunnel on the second level, crowded with shelves and bins of samples and mining tools. Tables and chairs were overturned and smashed, shovels and pickaxes were broken and melted, and even more bodies were scattered gruesomely on the stairs and ground like they'd been trying to flee. The table the Forsworn were crowded around was covered with gold bars and chunks of ore, wooden legs straining beneath its weight. They chattered and laughed among themselves as they filled canvas sacks with gold and set them aside, and Vanik had seen enough. He didn't bother sneaking. He strode in, twirling his axes loosely, and Words burned in his throat.

**_"FUS RO DAH!"_ **

Table, gold, and bodies went scattering like dust on the wind, blasted in all directions by the force of his Shout. The table hit the rocky wall and splintered in half. One scout hit a boulder with a sickening crack and didn't move again, but the other three were quick to recover, drawing their weapons and fanning out as they converged on him.

Vanik called on the blood of his ancestors, drawing the magic from his veins, and fire erupted from his skin and cloaked him in a hurricane of light and heat. The Forsworn who'd gotten closest fell back, yelling and beating at his singed fur armor while it smoldered, and Vanik lunged. There were three of them, but in that moment he was nothing but a vengeful creature of blood and flame, and one by one they fell before him. The fire surrounding him faded just as he cut the last one's throat, and behind him, there was the faint twang of a bowstring.

A heavy two-pronged arrow punched a hole through his armor and pierced the meat of his shoulder, and he grunted as pain shot bright down his arm, dropping his axe. He reached back and snapped off the shaft, pivoting to face the new enemy. Three figures stood at the mouth of the tunnel above him. Two were archers, bows trained on him, and the third was a tall man, bare-chested and wearing a helmet made of a deer skull that hid his face. There was an unnatural stillness to the way he held himself, and the fine hair on the back of Vanik's neck prickled. _Briarheart._

The next two arrows hit the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds prior. He rolled away and back onto his feet, palms braced on the ground, and lunged forward to snatch up his fallen axe. Another shot whistled by his ear and then he was beneath them on the platforms and bolting up the stairs, breathing hard. His shoulder throbbed angrily. He rounded the next set of stairs; above him, retreating footfalls echoed.

They were headed back to where they'd come from, further into the cave, and he chased them down a long tunnel that branched off into two different directions. The archers stopped at the fork to hold him off while the Briarheart escaped down one of them, and he took a few more good hits before he finally killed them. His armor was well-made, but it was light, and their arrows protruded from his forearm and thigh and his cheek bled where a third one had grazed him. He snapped off the wooden shafts and threw them aside.

"Come and face me, you coward!" he yelled into the tunnels, his voice bouncing off the rock, and mocking laughter echoed back at him.

He started down the tunnel, but had to fling himself aside as two spiked columns of ice shattered against the boulder next to him. The Briarheart holed up in a little room at the end of the tunnel and flung massive shards of ice at him with both hands any time he tried to move closer, so he stayed out of range until the man’s magic faltered, momentarily depleted. Then, he responded with some of his own.

**_“FO KRAH!”_ **

The tunnel froze like a mid-winter snowstorm, opaque crystals blooming on the walls. The Briarheart resisted the worst of it, but the force of the Shout sent him staggering back, and Vanik was on him, letting the slick ground propel him forward. He crashed into the other man, sent them both toppling, and the fight began in earnest.

They grappled, weapons momentarily abandoned, until the man got his legs between them and kicked out like a spring-loaded trap, catching Vanik square in the chest. He went flying and rolled when he hit the ground, mouth open in an airless cry as the arrowheads went deeper into his flesh. The Briarheart picked up his sword – a crude cudgel of metal and feather and bone – and came at Vanik, swinging it like a club. Vanik rolled to the side, blade scoring the earth where his head had been seconds earlier, and scrambled to his feet, panting. The man came at him again. He wasn’t breathing hard. He wasn’t even breathing.

Vanik was getting tired. His right side throbbed painfully, wounds burning and blood running down his skin inside his armor. He ignored it. _Time to finish this._ Quick, he ducked inside the Briarheart’s reach and reared up, butting his helmeted head into the underside of the man’s chin. The Briarheart’s head snapped back, jaws clacking together painfully as he stumbled back, and Vanik hooked his calf around the man’s ankle and swept his leg, sending him crashing to the ground. He immediately rolled onto his side and grabbed for his sword again, but Vanik snatched up his axe first. He took off the man’s hand at the wrist.

In some ways, it was worse that he didn’t scream. That behind his deer skull mask, his eyes remained bright, implacable. It was unnatural. The stump oozed putrid black blood. He tried to rise, kicking his legs up and out, but Vanik was prepared this time and the heel of his boot collided with the Briarheart’s forehead, cracking the mask and sending him sprawling onto his back. There was a patch of skin on the man’s chest, paler than the rest, edges raised with scar tissue. Vanik didn’t bother with his axe a second time. He burnt the briar right out of his chest.

 

Moth waited in front of the city gates. He’d lost track of how long he’d been waiting a while back, but the moons hung ripe and gold, high in the sky, so at least a couple of hours. He wasn’t used to the inaction, and got up to stretch every so often to keep his legs from cramping. He was starting to wonder how much longer he should wait when he spotted a lone figure limping up the road, moonlight glinting off golden armor. Relief warmed his chest. He raised his hand and waved. The figure paused, as if trying to discern his identity, then gave a tentative wave back.

“Moth?” Vanik said when he got closer. He sounded exhausted, confusion coloring his words. The helmet was tucked under his arm and his hair was loose, spilling around his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to see if you still wanted dinner. I saved you some. And this.” He held up a healing potion, liquid sloshing thickly in the glass vial.

Vanik snatched it from him and drained it in one go, grimacing when he finished it. “Thanks. The miners yanked all the arrows out of me, but there’s not a healer in the bunch. At least they were nice enough to try and stop the bleeding.” He let out a little huff of laughter. “Fighting a Briarheart really takes it out of you. Creepy bastards.”

“You _what_?”

“Oh, right. That was Thongvor’s emergency. Had to clear out a bunch of Forsworn from Kolskeggr. I let the miners know, but it’s not going to be safe for them to go back until they can afford to put a full-time watch on that place. Did you really save me dinner?”

“It’s back at the shop. Thought you might be hungry.”

“You,” Vanik said, reverence in his voice, “are a saint. God among mortals.”

“It’s just leftovers.” Moth tucked his hands into the pockets of his apron, cleared his throat. “Was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. I’m the Dragonborn, remember?” He grinned and winked, the very picture of youthful recklessness, but there was something hollow about it that made Moth’s chest constrict.

“You can’t keep pushing yourself this hard. If something happened – “ He stopped abruptly, unspoken words crowding his mouth, and Vanik scoffed.

“What, you’d miss me?” His voice wobbled a little on ‘miss’. “You barely know me.”

“Maybe.” Moth knew it was a gamble, but he stepped closer, slowly, giving Vanik room to back away. He didn’t back away. “But I want to know you. Not the Dragonborn. The real you.”

Vanik’s hands kept curling and uncurling at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Why?”

“Because.” Moth reached out and brushed his knuckle against Vanik’s cheek. Vanik exhaled, breath shaky. “I like you.”

“You like me,” Vanik whispered.

“Yeah.” He cupped Vanik’s cheek in his hand, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and Vanik nuzzled into his palm like a cat. But only for a second.

“This isn’t right,” he said.

Moth started to pull his hand back, but Vanik’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, held him there. His skin was startlingly warm. “It’s okay if you don’t want this.”

“That’s not it!” Vanik's face was obscured by shadow as clouds drifted overhead, but he sounded sad. “I saw you and Thongvor together. I know.” A small tremor ran through him. “It isn’t fair of you to do this.”

“Oh,” Moth said. He didn’t know what else to say. He turned it over in his head for a minute. “When?”

“A month ago, maybe. You were in the smithy.”

 _Of course._ Moth cursed internally. He’d known it was a bad idea. “Look, Thongvor ‘n me, we’re…” He struggled to think of a word that fit. “It’s complicated. But I’m not bein’ unfaithful, if that’s what you’re upset about.”

“How not?”

“We’re not each other’s one and only.” He chuckled a little at the thought. “He’s probably fucked more people than I have over the last twenty years.”

Vanik’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. “Oh,” he finally managed. “So, you…”

Moth slid his hand down to Vanik’s chin and lifted it so he could see his face. When he leaned in, their noses brushed. One of his tusks nudged Vanik’s lower lip. “You have the prettiest eyes,” he murmured.

Vanik made a wounded sound in his throat and dropped the helmet. He fisted his hands in Moth’s tunic, and Moth met him halfway, pulling him in for a kiss. It was clumsy, sloppy but enthusiastic, and Moth wrapped one arm around Vanik’s waist and drew him closer still, the other hand curving around the back of his neck.

He pulled back, slowing down and nibbling at Vanik’s lower lip until he got the idea and started to fall into the rhythm of the kiss, sliding his mouth against Moth’s and scraping his teeth gently over his lips, between his tusks. Moth tightened his grip around Vanik’s waist, ignoring the armor digging into him, and slid his fingers into Vanik’s hair, massaging the base of his scalp. Vanik melted against him. When they finally pulled apart, he slumped against Moth’s chest, forehead to collarbone.

“I’m so tired.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Come on.” Moth stooped down to pick up the helm, then led Vanik back to the keep, half-carrying him up the second flight of stairs to the shop. He made Vanik take off the armor and his bloodstained clothes and get into one of Moth’s spare tunics, which hung like a sheet on his wiry frame. He got out the leftovers and some water, and when Vanik was done wolfing them down, Moth put him in his own bed. Vanik went quietly enough, too tired to protest. He was asleep in seconds.

Moth left him curled up there, snoring into the pillow, and walked back across the city. This time, he went to the residential district, and climbed the familiar flight of stairs. He knocked until Thongvor came to the door, fully-dressed and worn out with dark circles under his eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Moth crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanik and Moth get closer, and Thongvor breaks the news to Thonar.

“You can’t sleep with him.”

“I can’t?” Moth asked. He seemed more amused than anything, which only served to annoy Thongvor further. “Since when?”

“Since he became my liaison. Or will be, once we discuss a few details.”

“So? He doesn’t work for me.”

“As long as you and I are involved, I draw the line at you fucking my staff.” He jutted his chin out, daring Moth to object.

Moth’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t come here to ask your permission. I came here to tell you to lay off him.”

“Don’t baby him.”

“Don’t be such a prick. Do you know you sent him against an entire band of Forsworn? They had a Briarheart with them.”

A sickening chill skittered down Thongvor’s spine. Suddenly, standing no longer seemed a viable option. He sat down at the table.

Moth looked at him, lips thinned into a scowl. “Well?”

“Of course he can have time to recover,” Thongvor snapped. “For Talos’ sake. I don’t want him dead!”

“Well, what were you thinking? That because he’s the Dragonborn, it doesn’t matter that there’s only one of him?”

Thongvor pointed at the seat next to him. “Sit.”

Moth didn’t move.

“Please.”

Moth sat.

“What’s this really about? You’ve never cared who I was involved with before.”

Thongvor grimaced. One thing he’d always loved and hated about Moth in equal measure was his ability to cut right to the heart of the matter. “You never got involved with anyone who’s stuck around.” Which was a relief, in some ways. Less complicated. “This is different.”

“How so?”

“Do you know what it would mean to have the Dragonborn working for us? Working _with_ us?” He sat back in his chair and exhaled. “It’s tenuous enough with Thonar still out for his blood. I don’t need it further jeopardized by you bringing _feelings_ into this.”

Moth stared at him incredulously. “I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

He laughed. “You’re jealous.”

“I told you, I don’t care who you sleep with. This is about business.”

“It ain’t him you’re jealous of.”

Thongvor glared at him, hands tightening on the arms of his chair. “Go home. You can come back when you start making sense again.”

“Sure thing.” Moth got to his feet, still chuckling. “Thongvor?”

“What _._ ”

“Next time you want to have sex with someone, don’t give them a job. Just ask like the rest of us.”

“ _I don’t want to have sex with him_ ,” Thongvor said through his teeth.

Moth was still laughing when he let himself out. Thongvor picked up his goblet, then put it down. Then picked it up again. Moth’s empty chair stared at him like an accusation. He picked up the bottle and poured himself more wine, drank half of it in a single gulp. It was just like Moth, to draw attention away from himself by suggesting something so preposterous. Not wanting Moth to sleep with him didn’t mean he suddenly wanted to have a tumble with one of the most infuriating creatures he’d ever met. And if he was jealous of anyone – which he wasn’t – then it was Vanik, not Moth. That was why the thought of them together made him want to break something. Or would, if he was jealous. Which he wasn’t.

He drank the rest of the wine. It was fine. His concerns were legitimate business concerns. As long as he knew that, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. He kicked over Moth’s empty chair on the way out of the room, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

 

Vanik was summoned to appear before the Jarl the next day. He was only surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Moth patched up his armor and scrubbed away most of the dirt and blood for him, and Vanik put it on and went down the hall to stand before the Mournful Throne.

“I’ve heard much about you, Dovahkiin,” Igmund said, and Vanik bowed.

“Good things, I hope.”

“For the most part.” Igmund smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had short hair and a close-cropped beard, both streaked with gray, and restless hands adorned with gold. “First the dragon attack, now rescuing one of the city’s most valuable resources from the hands of the Forsworn. It would seem that Markarth owes you a great deal. For that, you have my gratitude.” He hesitated, steepling his fingertips. “However, there is one thing that concerns me.”

Vanik arranged his face into what he hoped indicated polite interest. “And what might that be, sera?”

“Your association with the Silver-Bloods is becoming public knowledge.” Igmund’s eyes raked over him, assessing him keenly. “You’re an outsider here, so you can be forgiven for not understanding my concerns. Which is why I warn you now. The Silver-Blood family is not one you want to become involved with.”

 _Easy for him to say while their prison keeps the city’s economy afloat._ “I have no great love for the Silver-Bloods,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “But I need money to support my family back home in Windhelm, and it seems that most of the jobs around here end with me collecting their coin.”

“As fair a reason as any,” Igmund admitted, sitting back in his throne. “There are always bounties to be collected, should you speak with Raerek.” The elderly steward sitting on his own chair, lower on the dais, inclined his head. “I confess, I’ve been wanting to meet with you myself for some weeks now. It’s not every day one is afforded the opportunity to speak with a Dragonborn.”

 _You just had to determine how much of a threat I might be first. Shrewd._ Igmund wasn’t a complete fool, at least. He bowed again. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“And you. Markarth is honored to have you.”

Vanik wasn’t so sure about that, but he smiled and nodded anyway. Then, mercifully, he was dismissed, and escaped out into the sunshine.

Eventually he’d have to go see Thongvor. He couldn’t put it off forever. But he definitely wasn’t doing it on an empty stomach. He went to the inn and ordered as much food as he could carry, and ate until he was full. There was still a little over half when he was done, so he wheedled Kleppr into giving him a basket, and took it down to the Warrens. The people there received him with a kind of laconic suspicion – he might have spent a lot of time in the keep, but he was still one of them. They looked at him and they knew. It lived in his eyes.

That, and he’d beaten Mulush within an inch of his life, which meant he was alright as far as most of them were concerned.

“The Silver-Bloods doubled our pay,” Omluag told him as he took the basket. His face was more or less healed, though a thin scar remained on his cheek. “Dunno what you said to Thongvor, but it worked. I’m damn near making a living wage.”

“I threatened to beat him up too,” Vanik said, and Omluag chuckled.

“Wouldn’t that be the day.” He and Vanik exchanged wry smiles. “Thanks for the food.”

“Don’t mention it.” Vanik let himself out, blinking as the sunlight hit his eyes. One way or another, he was going to fix up the Warrens, he promised himself. Do like Verulus suggested and turn it into something good for the people who lived there. And then he’d go back to Windhelm and do the same for the Gray Quarter and the Assemblage. _Someday_.

He lost himself in a daydream of returning to Windhelm as he walked back across the city to Thongvor’s apartments – the hero who slew Alduin, coin flowing from his pockets and the world at his feet, to blow the city gates wide open with his Voice. There was something poetic about the idea of Ulfric having to face an enemy he didn’t even realize he’d made. Or maybe not. He didn’t read a lot of poetry.

Thongvor was waiting for him, and they sat stiffly across from one another in the study, his desk a vast wooden expanse between them. “Moth told me what happened,” he said.

Vanik’s head snapped up from where he was examining the bookshelf with great interest. “What?”

“With the Forsworn. I’m… glad that you seem to have recovered.”

“Yes, you sound thrilled,” Vanik said.

Thongvor cracked a smile. He appeared to be in one of his more pleasant moods, though strangely jittery. He poured Vanik a glass of wine, but wouldn’t make eye contact. “Let’s discuss the terms of your employment. I took the liberty of having a contract drawn up.”

“What, no foreplay?”

Thongvor made a strange choking noise, and a bit of wine dribbled from his lips. He recovered quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and took an official-looking document out of his desk drawer. Vanik watched him, puzzled. Thongvor shoved the paper across the desk at him. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t tell me I offended you just now.”

“I’m just surprised. You have a sense of humor after all.”

Vanik snorted and picked up the contract. To his surprise, there was little he found objectionable. His proposed wages were more money than he’d ever had at one time. It almost made his mouth water to think of it. He set the paper down. “I want one other thing added in here before I sign.” One of Thongvor’s eyebrows twitched, but he gestured for Vanik to continue. “I want fifty percent of whatever I earn sent to Windhelm. Specifically, care of Ambarys Rendar. He runs the New Gnisis Cornerclub.”

Thongvor was quiet for a second, stymied. He’d clearly been expecting more of a fight. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Done.” Thongvor picked up his quill and signed his name. Vanik did the same, in an unsteady scrawl beneath Thongvor’s blocky signature. He thought maybe he’d feel different in some way, but everything was more or less the same. Thongvor blew on the ink to dry it and stowed it away in his desk once more. “You are officially my liaison, and as such, under my protection for the duration of our agreement.” He clinked his goblet against Vanik’s. “Congratulations.”

Vanik sipped at it reluctantly. “So… what now?”

“To start, you’ll stay at the inn. No agent of mine is sleeping outdoors and fighting wolves for scraps.”

Vanik didn’t argue. There were worse things in the world than free room and board. “Anything else?”

“I’ll send for you when there’s something I need done. In the meantime, here.” He reached into a different part of the desk and pulled out a coinpurse, bulging at the seams. It hit the wood in front of Vanik with a heavy thump. He stared at it, then at Thongvor.

“This is…”

“For Kolskeggr. Oh, and Dra - Vanik? One more thing.”

“What?”

“Moth told me about your little rendezvous last night. Just so you’re aware.” Vanik turned blue-violet with embarrassment, flushing all the way down his neck. Thongvor topped his glass off. “Enjoy the gold.”

 

It was strange not having anything to do for once. Vanik knew he needed rest, and his body agreed, but he was bored out of his mind. He moved all his things into the nicest room at the inn under Kleppr’s jaundiced glare, and then he drank a bit and was annoyed at Thongvor for baiting him about Moth. He wasn’t mad that Moth had told him – it had been made clear that their arrangement, whatever it was, involved a great deal of transparency – but he’d never kissed anyone before. Thongvor bringing it up like that made it feel cheap.

But being annoyed quickly lost its appeal, and he spent some time wandering around the room, investigating. It was a nice room, with an enormous bed for him to sprawl out on and a fireplace along one wall - almost too nice, in a way. He ended up taking a nap just to kill some time, and woke up a couple of hours later to someone knocking on his door. He rolled out of bed and stumbled over, groggy and disoriented, to peer outside. Moth was standing there. He smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Vanik flung the door open the rest of the way. He suddenly remembered that he was still shirtless and barefoot, hair tangled with sleep, and brushed it out of his face self-consciously. Moth gave him an appreciative once-over as he stepped inside. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you might want to have dinner. We can eat here, if you want. Put it on Thongvor’s tab.”

“Sure. Let me just…”

Vanik cast around for a clean tunic, but Moth stopped him, hand on his shoulder. “Relax. I’ll get it. What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Moth came back a few minutes later with two plates full of salmon and vegetables. Vanik had dredged up a mostly-clean shirt in the meantime, and was trying to fix his hair with little success. It kept sticking up on one side. “Thanks,” he said, preoccupied, and Moth put the plates down on the table. Then he came over and gave Vanik a kiss so thorough, he forgot about his hair entirely.

Moth bit his lower lip gently as he pulled away. “You look fine,” he said.

Vanik’s chest went all fluttery. It was an odd feeling. “Uh… thanks. I mean, you do too. You look fine.” He cleared his throat. “That sounds bad. I mean, you look… better. Than that.”

Moth laughed. “Want to stop talking for a minute and eat?”

“Yes.” They ate, and then Moth ordered them a celebratory drink – two small glasses of barrel-aged whiskey that nearly burnt the hair out of Vanik’s nostrils when he sniffed at it. It burned on the way down, too, and sent him into a coughing fit. “It’s good,” he gasped, tears in his eyes.

Moth pounded him on the back, grinning. “Easy now. This stuff will lay you out flat for a day if you overdo it.”

“It’s nice, but I’d kill for some sujamma.” He took a drink of water. “Ambarys always used to sneak me some on special occasions when I was small. Never liked it much at the time, but I miss it now.”

Moth propped his chin in his hand, eyeing Vanik curiously. “That who gave you your old armor?”

“Good guess. Him and a few others back home. Never had parents, but he’s like a father to me.” Vanik shrugged. “So, what about you? Just you and Ghorza, or did you have other siblings?”

“There were five of us, but she and I are the two with the same mother. She was our father’s forge-wife. Nobody minded much when we left. She wasn’t his favored wife, and I was getting too old to stay.”

“What do you mean?”

“Orc males leave the stronghold when we come of age, or we challenge the chief for his title. It’s just the way of things.” Moth sat back in his chair. “I opted for the Legion.”

“Why the Legion?”

“Why not? I wanted to see more of the world, and hone my skills as a blacksmith. Seemed like a good way to do it.” He looked at Vanik, gaze thoughtful. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You ever see this happening? Staying in Markarth?”

“No.” Vanik laughed. “I only meant to stop in. Seems like forever ago.”

“Thought so.” Moth’s eyes were warm. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Vanik ducked his head, trying to hide the smile threatening to take over his face. “I am too. Recently, anyway.”

“Really?” Moth feigned confusion. “Now, why would that be?” Vanik kicked his ankle under the table, and he threw his head back and laughed.

 _How are you even real?_ Vanik looked him over, wondering if he was dreaming. He’d never let himself to take any real time to appreciate Moth’s appearance, but he was appreciating it now – shamelessly staring at his powerful shoulders and broad chest, at his muscled thighs and the dip in his throat where his shirt fanned open, at the crooked smile on his lips, at the neatly-groomed facial hair and dark eyes, lingering on his own. He wanted to do more than just look. He _could_ do more than just look. He scooted his chair closer. Their knees bumped.

“You’re the first person I ever kissed,” he confessed.

Moth’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

Vanik was immediately embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t name. “It’s not that important. I… just thought I should tell you.”

He started to pull back, but Moth took his hand and brought it to his lips, stilling him. His tusks were cool against Vanik’s knuckles. “It is important.” He met Vanik’s eyes, and his gaze was so sincere that it made Vanik’s heart skip a beat. “Thank you for telling me.”

Vanik shoved him, trying to diffuse the strange, soft ache that bloomed in the pit of his stomach. It felt like anticipation, but sweeter. “Stop being a fucking sop and kiss me again.”

Moth grinned and pulled him into his lap, and kissed him until his head spun.

They ended up on the bed, tangled up in one another. Vanik’s heart slammed against his ribcage, goosebumps rippling across his skin whenever Moth’s hands found bare skin. He _wanted,_ in a new and frightening way, and he had no idea what to do with himself. He kissed Moth so hard he nearly cut his lip on one of those curved tusks, trying to yank his tunic over his head until Moth grabbed his wrists, gentle but firm.

“Hey, hey. Slow down. There’s no rush.”

Vanik shrank back. "Sorry."

Moth shook his head and pulled Vanik forward to lay on top of him, kissing him again slowly. “Ain’t no sorry.” He bit Vanik’s lower lip, big hands cupping and kneading his arse, making him squirm. “I don’t want this to be over too fast, that’s all.” His mouth found Vanik’s cheek, brushing over his jawline and kissing the side of his neck.

Vanik’s breathing hitched. He was hot all over, his cock hard against the solid plane of Moth’s stomach, and a groan escaped him as Moth nibbled the tip of his ear. “Moth…”

“What do you want?”

He balled his fists in Moth’s tunic. “Take this off. I wanna touch you.”

They had to shift around so Moth could get it off, and then Vanik yanked his own shirt over his head and flung it aside, straddling Moth’s thighs. Moth was no longer young; his broad chest and belly were scarred, and the thick black hair on both was sprinkled with silver. He looked up at Vanik, both arms behind his head, and his teeth flashed when he smiled. He was perfect.

“Go on, don’t just stare at me.”

“I’ll stare all I damn well please.” He slid his hands up from Moth’s biceps to his shoulders, and then dragged them down slowly, muscles flexing beneath his palms. Moth’s skin was rough, and warm, and he tilted his head back as Vanik’s fingertips grazed his nipples, a soft sigh escaping him.

Vanik swallowed, tried to ignore the insistent ache of his cock swelling against his thigh and leaned in. He bit the curve of Moth’s throat, kneaded at his chest, desperate and skin-hungry. Moth’s breathing turned ragged. He held still, patient, but his pulse drummed against Vanik’s tongue, fingers twisting the sheets to the point of ripping. Vanik shifted his hips and gasped as Moth’s cock nudged against his, hard and straining against the fabric between them. He did it again, more deliberately, and sparks danced electric across his skin. Moth bent his knees to brace his feet against the bed. When he rolled his hips, they both moaned.

“Vanik…”

“Is this okay?” His voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him, raw with want.

Moth’s hand settled on the small of his back, the other sliding into his hair. “More than okay.” He pressed Vanik’s hips down to meet his, grinding into him until Vanik whimpered, blunt nails digging into the meat of his chest. They kissed – fierce, messy.

“Please – “ He braced himself against Moth’s shoulders, breath coming in little pants, hips moving of their own accord. Moth’s hands came down and squeezed his arse and thighs again, encouraging him wordlessly. “Just _do something,_ I wanna feel you…”

Moth fumbled between them, tearing his breeches open and shoving Vanik’s down so they stretched around his thighs. One big, callused hand wrapped around both of them, their cocks sliding together, and Vanik’s back arched of its own accord. Sparks skittered across his skin.

“Good?”

“Good,” he said weakly. “So good.” 

They rocked together, finding a rhythm, and Vanik held onto him, unable to take his eyes off Moth’s face. He wanted to memorize every expression that flickered across his face, the half-lidded eyes with their thick lashes and the way his teeth dug into his lower lip; burn it all into the back of his eyelids so he could see it every night for the rest of his life. And then Moth shifted his grip, squeezing a little, and Vanik’s hips stuttered and he came with a shocked sound against Moth’s stomach.

Moth rolled them over and pinned him to the bed, rutting up against him mercilessly until Vanik tried to squirm away, overstimulated; he came soon after with a growl, adding to the mess. Then, he flopped on his side, mindful not to put his full weight on Vanik, and the two of them lay there for a moment, catching their breath.

“Come here,” Moth said, after his breathing slowed, and he drew Vanik in for a long kiss, sweet as honey. Vanik nuzzled into him and bit affectionately at his mouth, head fuzzy and limbs useless. Moth coaxed him into disentangling for a minute so he could get a spare cloth and wipe both of them down, but Vanik urged him right back down when he was done, curling into the crook of his arm.

Moth chuckled. It reverberated through his chest. “Who knew you were such a sweet little thing deep down?”

“Shut up.” He could live like this, Vanik thought. He didn’t think he’d ever been so relaxed before. He buried his face into Moth’s shoulder, and Moth kissed the top of his head. Neither of them mentioned Thongvor, but the spectre of him hovered in the corner of the room. “I decided. I’m never leaving this bed.”

“Yeah? You won’t get bored?”

“’Course not. You can live here too.”

“Tempting offer,” Moth said, like he was actually considering it.

A wave of happiness surged through Vanik, and he pressed himself closer still. “Thank you.”

“No need. Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Well, not _all_ yours.”

“Smart-arse.”

“You like it.” Vanik peered up at him. “You’re gonna tell Thongvor about this, right?”

“Yeah. No details, but we’re honest with each other. Why?”

“No reason.” Pause. “Could you tell him I have a dragon cock? I want to preserve my mythos.”

“I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes,” Moth said soberly, and Vanik laughed so hard he nearly pitched off the bed.

 

Thongvor normally would have summoned Thonar to his apartments for a meeting of this gravity – he was still the eldest brother, and owed his dues. But for this particular discussion, he went to the Treasury House as a sign of respect. He hoped it would help soften the blow. As usual, when it came to Thonar, he hoped for too much.

“Your _liaison_.”

Two untouched cups of wine sat between them on the table.

“Yes. It’s done.”

“So.” Thonar sat back in his chair. He was pale and unshaven, like he hadn’t slept in days. “This elf is important enough for you to betray your only remaining family, is he?”

“He’s the Dragonborn. Skyrim needs him. Have you been getting enough rest?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Thonar’s lip curled. “The Dragonborn. Always chasing legends, aren’t you?”

“This isn’t a legend. Or did you already forget that a dragon nearly destroyed Markarth, and he’s the only reason it’s still standing?”

“He’s a murderer, and a liar, and has insulted both of us beyond pardon. Are you telling me you intend to let his crimes go unpunished?”

“There is more at stake than your grudge!” Thongvor slammed his fist against the table, making their goblets jump. Wine sloshed over the rim. Thonar watched him, unblinking, while he took a moment to compose himself. Thonar’s single-mindedness regarding this issue was sudden, and baffling. “Do you know what it means, to have the Dragonborn working for me? For us? Skyrim’s most fabled warrior, in our pocket. Think of the possibilities.”

“He’s a rabid dog,” Thonar said, unmoved. “You may have him on a leash now, but how long until he turns on you?”

“I believe him and the priest,” Thongvor said. “How well did you really know Lisbet?”

Thonar’s knuckles went white as his grip tightened around the arms of the chair, and Thongvor knew he’d gone too far, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for it. “The people here like him,” he said instead. “Respect him. He could be the key to a new future. One where Markarth is back under our control, where it belongs.”

“Fool.” Thonar’s voice was deadly soft. “Your new pet will ruin us, mark my words.”

“It isn’t like you to put personal feelings before business,” Thongvor said. “When did that happen?” Thonar was silent. Shades of the sly, sullen little boy he had once been peeked through. Thongvor still thought of him that way sometimes – his little brother, the shadow at his back, saying nothing and seeing everything. “You’ve changed.”

“And you’ve stayed exactly the same.” Thonar glared at him. “You’ve always been a sentimental fool, obsessing over past glories. Tell me, brother. Is it because you know that you’re fading into obscurity even now?”

“We’re done here.” Thongvor stood, shoving his chair back. “Like it or not, I’m still the patriarch of this family, and my word is final. The Dragonborn will come to no harm by your design. Are we clear?”

Thonar picked up his goblet and took a sip. It left his mouth stained red. “Yes, brother of mine,” he said. “Clear as day.”

Thongvor left the study, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Betrid sat at the table near the bottom of the stairs, eating grapes and fanning herself idly. She looked at him over the top of her fan. “Thongvor.”

“Betrid.”

Her painted lips curved into a smile. “Give your little elf my regards. I’d like to meet him sometime.”

“Not bloody likely,” Thongvor said, and stormed out of the Treasury House, her silvery laugh twinkling in the night like stars.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vanik takes a job, and then takes matters into his own hands.

All things considered, Moth felt like it could have gone worse. They were having lunch, and he’d come prepared with a speech about how who he took as a lover was no concern of Thongvor’s (and vice versa, to be fair), but he only got a couple sentences in before Thongvor put up a hand to stop him and said, “Fine.”

Moth eyed him over his goblet, suspicious. Thongvor never gave in this easily. “Change of heart?”

“Just don’t screw this up for me.” Thongvor dipped his bread in the stone dish of melted butter and herbs between them. “Getting him to agree was hard enough the first time. I don’t need him running off in a snit because you broke his heart.”

“You’re right, that’s the most likely scenario,” Moth said dryly. Thongvor glared at him. “He’s not some weeping maid. And if he does run off in a snit, it’ll probably be because you pissed him off one too many times.”

“Have it your way.” Thongvor speared a chunk of fruit and popped it into his mouth, chewing savagely. “Go on then,” he said around his mouthful. “How was it?”

“How was what?” Moth asked, even though he knew perfectly well what Thongvor meant. Normally they didn’t discuss details, but this wasn’t exactly normal; he couldn’t remember the last time either of them had gotten jealous of the other. And Thongvor _was_ jealous, whether or not he wanted to admit to it.

“The sex.”

“You’ve never cared before.”

“This isn’t before.”

Moth took a sip of wine, rolled it around in his mouth while he considered. “He wanted me to tell you that he has a dragon cock.” Thongvor coughed. Loudly. “Why do you want to know?”

“I – “

“You suddenly decide to be happy for me? Or did you just want me to tell you all about how pretty he is when he comes?”

Thongvor’s hand was white-knuckled around his fork. Moth’s leg jiggled restlessly beneath the table, braced for a fight. He wasn’t prepared for Thongvor to glare down at his plate and mutter, “Things aren’t the same with us since he came around.”

_Oh._

“You worried I like him better than you?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Thongvor said. Or would have said, if he’d been able to. But Moth’s hand slid between his legs under the table, palming the head of Thongvor’s cock, and all that came out was a sharp intake of breath. He was a man of action; always had been. But right then, all he could do was stare as Moth dropped to his knees and crawled under the table, shoving his thighs apart.

Moth always did like that part more than he should have – turning Thongvor from roaring bull to stumbling pup with no more than a well-timed gesture. A bitten-off curse left Thongvor’s lips as Moth unlaced his breeches, practiced and unhurried, fingertips brushing over his clothed flesh. “Don’t think I forgot about you,” he said, freeing Thongvor from his smalls. “Not for a second.”

“Moth – “

“Shh.” He ducked his head, slicked his tongue across the length of it. Thongvor’s head fell back, breathing hard through his nose.

It was only a temporary measure, a medicine to soothe the pain even as the wound itself continued to fester. It wouldn’t fix much, if anything. But Thongvor’s hands clenched onto his shoulders, and he couldn’t find it in himself to stop.

 

Vanik was dying of boredom.

At Moth’s insistence, he’d spent the last several days doing nothing but resting and eating properly for the first time in his life. Once the novelty wore off, he felt like he was going mad. He liked not being hungry all the time, without the constant twinge of _not enough_ gnawing at him, but he hated sitting still, and by the end of the week, he was about to crawl out of his skin. Enough was enough, he decided. He wasn’t an invalid, and it was clear he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

He went to see Thongvor the day after he’d made up his mind, while Moth was at work. The maid answered when he knocked, and he brushed past her with a curt nod, heading to the study. It was open. He rapped on the doorframe.

“I need a job.”

“Good morning to you too,” Thongvor said. He was reading through various sheaves of parchment at his desk, a half-finished plate of food at his elbow. He waved Vanik in. “Close the door.”

Vanik closed it and perched on the chair across from him, drumming his fingers on the desktop. “I don’t care what it is, but I need it to be out of the city. I’m tired of being cooped up.”

Thongvor gave him a disparaging look. “I imagine it’s pointless to explain that in our arrangement, I’m supposed to send for you.”

“You can try,” Vanik said, helping himself to a handful of candied nuts from the dish on the corner of the desk. “What happened with the miners from my last job? Kolskeggr and Left Hand.”

“What do you mean, what happened? They went back to work as soon as everything was cleaned up.” Thongvor set down the bundle of parchment and scribbled something at the bottom, then set it aside. “Unpleasant scene in there, from what I was told.”

“Well, right, but did you increase the guards? Or ask the Jarl to send out more patrols?” Vanik sucked the lingering sweetness from his fingers and wiped them on his tunic. “Because it’s only a matter of time before the Forsworn come back. They’re not just going to let it go.”

Thongvor took a deep breath. He was already starting to flush with what Vanik imagined was suppressed anger. “Setting your insubordination aside for the moment, what makes you think Igmund is capable of doing anything useful for this hold?” Vanik shrugged and reached for more nuts, but Thongvor moved the bowl out of reach. “There are no guards to spare. Not with the war.”

“What about your mercenaries?”

“Our resources, though vast, aren’t without their limits. I can’t waste valuable fighting men on an attack that might not come.” He ate a nut, ignoring Vanik’s glare. “Which brings me to your next job.”

“But – “

“Do you want work or not?”

“Fine,” Vanik conceded, though part of him still bristled at the dismissal. _Later._ “What do you have?”

“I need you to go to Karthwasten.”

“Karth-what?”

“Mining town east of the city. The men I sent to secure it against Forsworn attacks are being stonewalled.” He had Vanik get out his map so he could mark down the exact location. “The owner is a man named Ainethach. He’s the one you need to reason with. The rest will fall in line behind him.”

“Why me?”

“The commoners here seem to like you. I can use that.” A heavy finger tapped the wood for emphasis. “Normally Thonar handles this side of the business, but he’s not speaking to me, so it falls to you. Congratulations.”

“So... you want me to _talk_ to people?” Vanik asked dubiously.

“My gods you’re perceptive. Yes, I want you to _talk_ to people.” Vanik didn’t respond right away, still eyeing the candy bowl, and Thongvor crossed his arms. “Beggars can’t be choosers, boy. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll go.” At least it was out of the city. “And don’t call me boy.”

Thongvor slid the bowl back towards him. “Report back to me as soon as you’re done. This is important, understand?”

“For fuck’s sake, yes, I understand. It’s important. Anything else?”

“Not that you’ve done anything to earn it, but yes. One more thing.” Thongvor opened the topmost drawer of his desk and took out a little square box made of polished wood. Inside, a silver ring nestled on a bed of red silk. The center was decorated with the Silver-Blood crest, and surrounded by chips of cut ruby. “This is for you to wear, so they know you’re acting on my behalf.”

Vanik’s first impulse was to refuse, but it probably would come in handy if the men the Silver-Bloods employed were anything like he was picturing them. There was also a part of him that couldn’t help but marvel at its beauty, greedy and distractible as a magpie. He snatched it up before Thongvor could take it away. “Sure, fine, thanks. Can I go now?”

Thongvor waved him away impatiently, already back to his paperwork, and Vanik stood. He left the remaining sweets untouched. There was a moment where he hesitated in front of the doorway, feeling like he ought to say something else without quite knowing why, but he couldn’t think of anything and Thongvor was ignoring him anyway. The door swung open, then shut.

 

He left a note for Moth so he wouldn’t worry, then struck out for Karthwasten. It felt good to be on the road again, away from the stifling confines of the walls with the wind in his hair, but knowing he was only there on an errand for the Silver-Bloods soured the day somewhat. _It’ll be worth it in the end,_ he reminded himself, but the irritation remained, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Thongvor had a way of getting under his skin like no other. A word, a gesture, a glance; even a simple change in tone was enough to start his blood boiling. He’d always been quick to anger, but this… this was something else entirely.  He shook it off, tried to refocus. Whatever the situation that awaited him, there was no way it was as simple as Thongvor made it sound. And indeed, when he arrived the following day, dusty and parched from the sunbaked dirt road, it was to a stand-off.

A group of men blocked the entrance to the mine. They were mostly Nords, big and scarred, dressed in identical black-plate armor with silver inlay. A second group faced them down. These were the miners, wielding a motley assortment of tools – pickaxes, shovels and the like. There wasn’t a stitch of armor between them, but they clearly had no intention of backing down. At their head, a balding human with enormous sideburns stood toe-to-toe with an equally balding mercenary. Vanik caught snatches of their conversation as he trudged up the path.

“ – want you sellswords out of my mine – “

“ – leave once we’re sure – “

“I’ve been more than tolerant of this farce,” the foreman snapped, arms folded tight across his chest. “But enough is enough!”

“Oh?” The mercenary’s hand inched towards the hilt of his sword. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Send you back to Markarth so you can tell the Silver-Bloods – “

“Excuse me,” Vanik said loudly from where he’d stopped on the path. Several heads swiveled as one to face him. “Before you all start murdering each other, does anyone want to explain what’s going on?”

“Who the fuck is you?” one of the miners asked, pickaxe tight in his fist.

“Excellent question,” the mercenary leader said, looking Vanik over with a sneer. “Move along, greyskin. This is no concern of yours.”

The rest shifted behind him, a murmur of agreement echoing through the crowd. Anger sparked hot in Vanik’s chest, but he forced himself to tamp it down before it burst into full flame. _Not now._ The other man, the one with the miners, was staring at him in open befuddlement. This was probably Ainethach, Vanik noted. Too short to be a Nord, wrong accent for an Imperial; Reachman, if he had to guess.

“You the one in charge here?”

“Supposed to be.” He cast a bitter look at the mercenaries. “Before this lot came to strong-arm me into selling my mine, anyway.”

“Watch your tongue, _native_ ,” the lead mercenary hissed.

Vanik rounded on him. “Alright, you then. What’s your name?”

“Atar.” His voice was strangely refined, at odds with his rough appearance and dirty armor. He looked Vanik over, and in turn, Vanik knew what to expect before he even met the man’s eyes. It was the same sort of look the humans back home had given him, when they bothered to see him at all. Like he wasn’t worth the shit they scraped off their boots. “What’s it to you?”

Vanik smiled. The ring on his finger glistened when he moved his hand, rubies like droplets of fresh blood on silver snow. “Well, _Atar_ ,” he drawled, watching the man’s expression waver, “I need a name to bring back to Thongvor Silver-Blood, seeing as he’s the one who sent me to resolve this little dispute of yours.”

“I don’t believe you,” Atar said, but uncertainty hovered around him now, dulling the sharp edges of his words. His stance grew less arrogant by the second. “Why would the Silver-Bloods hire an elf?”

Vanik shrugged, savoring his disquiet. “Ask him yourself if you really want to know.”

“Fine,” Atar said, after a tense moment had stretched by. His men shifted uneasily. The miners remained silent, watching. “What do you want?”

“Piss off for the rest of the day and let me handle this.”

“Fat chance.”

“Fine, have it your way. I’ll be sure to let Thongvor know that you were actively working against orders from his liaison.” Vanik scratched his chin slowly, let them all get a good long look at the crest on the ring. “His orders.”

“Clever little knife-ear,” Atar said, but the insult lost some of its sting as he backed off, the fear in his eyes brief, but heady and sweeter than mead. This, Vanik realized with a start, was the power money could buy, and he trembled with the rush of it. “Fine. We’ll be in the mines while you sort this out. But you take too long, and I’m taking matters into my own hands.” With that, he and his men retreated, leaving Vanik to face the miners on his own. 

“So.”

The glow of satisfaction faded at the disgust in Ainethach’s voice, leaving Vanik with a sickly jolt, like when you took the stairs too fast and missed the bottom step. He turned to face the man, who looked as though he would like nothing better than for the earth to swallow Vanik whole and make sure he never darkened Karthwasten’s doorstep again. “I didn’t cave fast enough, so the Silver-Bloods send more dogs to nip at my heels, is that it?”

“I’m not here to force you into anything. I just want to talk.” That much, at least, was true.

“A likely story.”

The stocky Nord on Ainethach’s right shouldered his pickaxe. “Mebbe you should talk to him, boss. He got Atar to back off.”

Ainethach glared at him. “But for how long, Ragnar?”

“Better him than Atar,” the Orc on his other side chimed in. She wielded a shovel like a club and sized Vanik up with frank, dark eyes, like she could take the measure of his soul at a single glance. “Longer this goes on, the farther behind schedule we fall.”

“Enough!” Ainethach stalked forward. “Listen, elf – “

“It’s Vanik.”

“I don’t care.” He jabbed a finger in Vanik’s face. “This is my land, do you hear me? It’s been in my family for generations, and it’s going to stay that way. So you go back to Markarth and tell that nest of vipers passing for men that they can send as many liaisons as they like, but I’m not selling!”

He stormed off up the hill, leaving Vanik and the miners to stare at one another in awkward silence. He cleared his throat, and they dispersed in a hurry, leaving only himself and the Orcish womer who’d spoken up on his behalf.

“You don’t look like the rest of them,” she said.

“Because I’m Dunmer?”

“No, that’s not it. You don’t stink like a Silver-Blood lackey.” She looked up the hill, where Ainethach had gone. A wooden longhouse sat at the top, smoke trickling from a narrow chimney. “You here to get him to sell?”

“I’m here because I was told to come here,” he said truthfully.

“Why you?”

“I’m… working off a debt.” Not as truthful, but close enough. She nodded, like that confirmed something. A man’s voice rang out from the direction of the barracks.

“Lash! Hurry up!”

“Coming!” she bellowed, then glanced back at Vanik. “Look. As far as the rest of us go, we all just want to get back to work. We’re not making any money while Atar and his men are here. Hear Ainethach out before you do anything, though. He’ll talk to you once he’s cooled off some.”

“Got it,” he said, and watched her jog off to catch up with the rest.

Ainethach didn’t seem like he was going to cool off anytime soon, which left him with Atar and his men. Thongvor seemed like he wanted the matter resolved with as little bloodshed as possible, which was just as well; Vanik didn’t fancy taking them on ten-to-one. He looked around. Karthwasten was a mining town through and through, from the crumbling town hall and its seedy, overrun garden to the grimy barracks and double smelters out front of each mine. Normally they would be glowing hot, smoke belching from their depths, but each sat cold and unused. Goats and chickens roamed the dusty slopes aimlessly, grazing on half-rotted lettuce and wilted mountain flowers. He shook his head. The mines must have been full of silver if Thongvor wanted this place.

 _That n’wah._ He spat. _Sent me walking in blind, again._ He was really going to have to start demanding a full report before he took any more jobs. This time was partly his fault, though. He’d been eager to get out of the city. He kicked at a loose clod of dirt, pulled a face. _Time to get this over with_.

 

“What do you want?” Atar asked nastily when Vanik appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. Brave again, now that he was back on familiar ground. He and a couple of the other mercenaries sat at a table on one of the low wooden platforms, playing dice. The rest sprawled out where they pleased, drinking and chatting in low voices. They appeared to be ignoring him, but Vanik knew better. One signal from Atar and there’d be ten swords at his throat. He adopted a bored expression.

“I’m just here to do my job, same as you. Answer a few questions for me, and I’ll be on my merry way.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“The sooner this gets resolved, the sooner the Silver-Bloods pay up, and then we can get out of this shithole,” Vanik said. “Don’t tell me you like it here.”

Atar snorted at that, and his flagon hit the table. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Few weeks. This place is a prime target for Forsworn attacks, and the Silver-Bloods sent us to fend off the most recent one. In return, they want to buy Sauranach Mine.” Atar’s smile wasn’t a pleasant one. A couple of the others chuckled at something in the background. “It’s a generous offer, even if the old fool is too stubborn to realize it.”

“I see,” Vanik said, biting the inside of his cheek. Anger crackled hot through his blood, but he forced it down. “And if they don’t sell?”

Atar shrugged. “We don’t leave. No skin off my nose either way. We’re still getting paid.” He downed the rest of his drink, then shoved the flagon aside. “You’re right about this place being a shithole, though, so I’ll tell you what. Convince him to sell, and I’ll give you a cut of the profits. How’s that sound?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Give me until tomorrow morning.” He would have rather slit his own throat, but Atar didn’t need to know that.

“Suit yourself,” Atar said, and went back to rolling his dice. Vanik left before he could do something rash, like Shout them to bits, and paced in front of the mine for a while, wrestling his temper back under control. Screw the odds. He was this close to fighting them anyway, and it was only the thought of losing his pay that held him back. He ended up sitting by the tragic little garden, tossing overripe snowberries at the chickens and watching them squabble.

Words weren’t Vanik’s strong suit, and not just because he couldn’t read very well. What good had they ever done him, or any of them? Ulfric turned a blind eye to his non-human citizens, their ceaseless petitions for justice falling on uncaring ears. Some of the guards, the ones who liked to get their hands dirty, beat you harder if you cried or begged, just for the fun of it. Even Revyn, who could charm the most recalcitrant traveler out of their coin, was powerless when they came for their weekly bribe.

Ambarys was Vanik’s self-appointed guardian, and he’d taught Vanik to read out of necessity, but his real gift had teaching Vanik to fight. Violence was the teacher and the tool all in one, Vanik’s constant companion since he was old enough for Men to start taking notice of him. It was the currency of the poor, Ambarys told him. Words wouldn’t stop Rolff Stone-Fist or his cronies from harassing them, but a broken nose or a swift knee to the balls might, and seeing him limping through the streets had been worth every beating the guards gave him afterwards.

Not this time, though. Fighting wasn’t the solution, not when Thongvor could just send more to take their place, and deprived of his instincts, Vanik found himself at a loss. Of all the jobs Thongvor could have given him, why this one? His fingers were stained purple with berry juice. He tossed the rest of his handful away. The chickens chased after the berries as they scattered and bounced, clucking loudly.

“Still here, eh?”

He looked over. Ainethach had come down from the hall with a pouch full of birdfeed at his belt. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t seem as angry as he had earlier, either. “Well, let’s have it. Go on.”

“Have what?”

Ainethach dipped his fingers into the pouch. Seeds rained onto the dusty ground. “Why should I sell the mine?”

Vanik had no idea what to say. Telling the truth wasn’t really an option. He looked at his feet, chewing on his lip, and Ainethach cleared his throat.

“That’s why they sent you, right? To finish what Atar couldn’t?”

“I guess so, but…” What was it he’d told Lash earlier? “Look, I’m here because I’m working off a debt. I don’t give a skeever’s arse if you sell your mine.” He gestured around. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, trust me.”

“Maybe so,” Ainethach admitted. “Doesn’t seem like a Silver-Blood thing to do, keeping with elves.” Chickens gathered around his feet, pecking at the seed. “But you’re still here.”

“I’m not the one holed up in your mine drinking ‘n gambling, neither,” Vanik pointed out. Ainethach’s jaw clenched, a vein standing out at his temple beneath ruddy skin, but he didn’t say anything. “So yeah, maybe I’m supposed to try to get you to sell. But I’ve heard from the Silver-Bloods and Atar, and now I want to hear from you.”

For a moment, he thought Ainethach might refuse. But then the man’s expression softened, and he sighed. “Y’might as well come inside. I need a drink.”

The inside of the hall wasn’t quite as shabby as the outside, but like everything else in Karthwasten, it was creeping into disrepair. Ainethach cracked open a bottle of juniper wine and sat at the long wooden dining table against the wall, benches already going soft with rot. He didn’t offer Vanik any.

“Do you know how many Reach-born natives own land here?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Five. Maybe less. This place has belonged to my family since my grandda’s da built this hall with his bare hands, and I can’t go more than a week without someone coming after it. If it’s not the Forsworn attacking us, it’s the Nords trying to drive me out. Out of _my_ town.”

“Why do the Forsworn attack you? Aren’t they native Reachers too?”

Ainethach scoffed. “If you’re not with the Forsworn, you’re against them. Native or no. I’m not with them, so I must be with the Nords, and the Nords think that since I’m not with them, I must be Forsworn. Doesn’t matter what I do, I’m surrounded. Bloodthirsty savages on one side, and the Forsworn on the other.” He laughed at his own joke. It turned into a cough that rattled his lungs, thick with phlegm. “Atar and his boys aren’t the first muscle the Silver-Bloods have sent my way, and they won’t be the last. Count on it.”

Vanik sat paralyzed on the bench. He had no idea how to respond. Ainethach took a long swallow of wine, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “My ma was right, y’know. Said this place was going to be nothin’ but trouble the second we struck silver.”

“The silver mine. That’s new?”

“Newer than the rest. Nobody cared when we were just an iron mine.” Ainethach smiled bitterly. “It was supposed to bring prosperity. Ain’t brought nothin’ but ruin.” When he slugged the wine again, his hand trembled, and some slopped down his chin. “Not that it matters to you, but there you have it. The sad tale of Karthwasten. Sad enough for you?”

I’m not your enemy, Vanik wanted to say. I grew up under the boots of the Nords too. But he got the sense that it wouldn’t make a difference. To this man, he was just another Silver-Blood thug. He might have found the irony darkly humorous, had he known what irony was. “I’m sorry. I’ll see myself out.”

“I think that’s best,” Ainethach said. He didn’t even seem angry now. Just tired, wilting at the edges like a potted plant left too long in the sun. There were no Forsworn in Karthwasten, Vanik knew then, no matter anyone’s suspicions. Just a handful of miners poorer than the dirt they worked and an exhausted foreman at the end of his rope.

 

He wasn’t welcome in the hall or the mines, so Vanik posted up near the garden, with only the chickens and goats for company. He drank half his remaining water and watched the sunset, thoughts bouncing uselessly in all directions like the snowberries he’d thrown earlier. He knew what he was supposed to be doing, but every part of him rebelled at the idea of bullying a man out of something that was rightfully his. He could leave, but who knew what Atar would do if left to his own devices much longer, and that still put Vanik in the exact position he was trying to avoid. He imagined trying to justify murdering ten of Thongvor’s mercenaries to the man himself. Forget the progress they’d made, he’d probably hand Vanik to Thonar on a silver platter.

 _C’mon. Focus._ He tugged his bedroll away from the nanny goat chewing on the corner. There had to be a solution. He just couldn’t see it yet.

“Maybe I could just say Forsworn got them,” he said to the goat. “It’s always Forsworn out here.”

She bleated.

“No, you’re right. That doesn’t solve much of anything. He’ll just send replacements.” Vanik stretched out, legs crossed at the ankles, and tossed a pebble into the air, catching it deftly. Something to keep his hands busy, that was the trick; he’d always done his best thinking while he was otherwise preoccupied –

That _was_ the trick. The pebble fell from his slack fingers to land in the dirt.

_Something to keep them busy._

Atar wasn’t an early riser. Neither were his men. By the time they deigned to emerge from the mine, Vanik had been up for hours, scrounging for breakfast. Lash had finally taken pity on him and slipped him some bread and cheese in exchange for a few septims. He waited for them now on the steps of Karthwasten Hall, sucking the remnants from his teeth.

“Nice morning,” he remarked, once they were close enough to hear him. “Was starting to think you lots were planning on sleeping it away.”

Atar scowled at him. “Why are you so chipper?”

“Like I said. It’s a nice morning. But I don’t suppose you’re here to talk about the weather.”

“Got it in one.” Atar crossed his arms. “Time’s up, greyskin. We’re here to resolve this mess once and for all, unless you convinced the old man to finally sell this dung heap.”

“I didn’t. And you’re not going to, either.”

Atar threw his head back and laughed. He was missing one of his front teeth, Vanik saw now, and answering laughter rippled through the men flanking him. “You hear that, boys? He’s got us pegged.” The laughter grew, loud and mean. Atar spat on the steps, inches from Vanik’s boot. “And why’s that, then?”

The bag of gold hit him square in the chest, knocking the smirk off his face as he staggered back a couple paces. The laughter died. Vanik surveyed them all calmly, hoping they couldn’t tell that his heart was pounding beneath his armor. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“What change of plans?” one of the men nearest asked.

“Shut it!” Atar shot him a glare, then looked back at Vanik. “What change of plans?”

“A necessary one,” Vanik said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the miners gathered at the barrack windows, watching. No doubt Ainethach was doing the same somewhere behind him. “There’s your first week’s wages upfront. Congratulations on the new job.”

“What new job?” Atar demanded. “I didn’t hear anything about this.”

But he was still clutching the bag of septims, unwilling to let it go, and all his men’s eyes were trained on Vanik, unblinking. Waiting to hear what he’d say next. There was that surge of power again, crashing through him like surf against the ice floes, and he grinned toothily. Atar recoiled, just the tiniest bit. _Good._ Vanik was going to enjoy making him squirm a little longer before he let him off the hook. He stood.

“Let’s head back to Markarth, shall we? I’ll explain on the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been debating whether or not to post this one for a while, but I finally decided I'd go ahead and start putting it up here as well. This is a fairly plot-driven, slow burn story with an unusual choice of ship, but I'm having a lot of fun with it, and hopefully some of you find it enjoyable as well.


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